


in a week

by weisenbachfelded



Series: in a week au [1]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gardeners, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Mutual Pining, background Ralbert, davey is a gardener jack is an artistic director, idiots to lovers, kind of?, nonbinary albert specs and crutchie, what could go wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25017112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weisenbachfelded/pseuds/weisenbachfelded
Summary: If he’s being completely honest, the New York Flower Show has always been the goal for Davey. And if it means that he has to spend all his time working to get there, it just works out that way. If he has to hear one more person tell him he’s married to his work, he’s probably going to scream.The one thing he hadn’t counted on, though, is the flower show’s Artistic Director, Jack Kelly.
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Sarah Jacobs/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer
Series: in a week au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1853953
Comments: 402
Kudos: 116





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> listen. this is the most specific au you will maybe ever read but just. go with me.  
> title is from the hozier song because of the lyrics:
> 
> we lay here for years or for hours  
> so long we become the flowers

Davey answers the phone on speaker, his hands shaking. Terrified he’s going to drop it, he places it on the kitchen table, and they all crowd around it with baited breath. 

‘Hello, is this David Jacobs?’ 

‘Yes. Yeah, uh. Speaking.’ Davey stammers. Sarah rolls her eyes, exasperated, but she’s smiling. Davey gives her a panicked look. 

‘Hi there, Mr. Jacobs. I’m calling from the New York Horticultural Board.’ 

‘Oh wow, really?’ Davey says, as though he doesn’t already have the number saved in his phone, just in case, as though he hasn’t been waiting for the day it flashed up on his phone for the last three years. 

‘We’d like to invite you to be part of our team at this year’s NYC Flower Show.’ 

Katherine claps a hand over her mouth. Albert jumps in the air, mouth wide open in a silent scream. Davey thinks he might pass out.

‘I - I don’t know what to say.’ He manages, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Thank you so much.’ 

‘Your work is fantastic, Mr. Jacobs. We start two weeks from tomorrow. I’ll call you back with some more details very soon. Can I get your email address?’

Davey somehow manages to stutter out his email address, and a goodbye to the representative on the phone. 

The moment he hits the red ‘end call’ button, the kitchen explodes with noise. 

‘Davey!’ Sarah yells wrapping her arms around him and planting a kiss on his forehead. 

‘This is insane!’ Spot shouts, grabbing him by the shoulders. 

‘I’m so freaking proud of you, Dave!’ Katherine beams. Davey can only nod, giddy with happiness. From somewhere behind him, he hears a cork pop. 

‘Champagne?’ Albert asks, already pouring out glasses. Davey takes one from them, and he isn’t quite sure that he’s going to be able to hold onto it. Buttons takes a glass too, squeezes his shoulder, and laughs, gleefully. 

*

The New York Flower Show has always been his goal, and Davey isn’t even going to try and pretend otherwise. 

He can still remember being twenty-one, and miserable in college, reading article after article about it, longing to be back home, and doing something he loved again. 

He had just known, somehow, that the flower show was where he wanted to be. It was an aspiration that was his and his alone, not chosen by anyone else or because people told him he was good at it. 

Moving back to New York was, as he will tell anyone who asks, the best decision of his life. After he graduated, there was essentially a house with a white picket fence waiting for him in Florida, neighbours who all worked in the same department as him, a car with a NASA bumper sticker, and two-point-four children by the time he was thirty. 

He can still remember the disappointment, the incredulity in his professors’ voices when he told them he was turning down a job offer from freaking _NASA_. And to be a _gardener,_ of all things. 

He has loved plants for as long as he can remember. 

Which sounds really fucking stupid, he knows, but it’s the truth, to put it plainly. 

It had been his Savta who first showed him how beautiful they could be, pointing out the flowers in the window boxes of her little Manhattan apartment. He can still remember being no older than six, sitting on a countertop, watching her tend to her flowers, carefully snipping dead heads, tending to the soil with gentle presses of her fingers. On the best days, she would give him a jug of water, lift him up, and let him water the flowers, and explain to him in great detail the way that the water went into the soil and all the way up the roots to feed the plants. He would listen, wide-eyed and fascinated, even then, desperate to learn, to figure out how the world around him worked. 

He can still remember her taking him to her allotment, no bigger than a few square metres, with tower blocks all around, and the sound of New York traffic muffled in the distance. She would sow her sunflower seeds, strap them to long bamboo poles, and show him the way they turned to face the sun, her eyes crinkling as she smiled at him. 

Eventually, it had been him who dug the allotment, while his Savta sat in her deckchair, directing him where to plant her runner beans, showing him with her gnarled, shaking fingers how to tape plants to poles so that they would grow straight upwards. She would take his hands in hers, and tell him, with her mischievous smile, that he had a green thumb, and he had better take good care of it. 

He wonders often what happened to that allotment. Who does it belong to, now? Have they paved over it to make a car park? Or is there someone else tending to it, sowing their own seeds? Do they still grow runner beans in that same soil? 

When he and Sarah had gone to college, his parents had seized the opportunity to move out of the city, and found a little house near the Appalachian Trail. There, they can take hikes, and his Aba has started to learn how to paint landscapes, and they have a little bakery that they run together, and they seem happy. 

There had been a part of Davey that felt a little betrayed, though, that they had left New York, and left his home. He had resigned himself to never seeing the city again, when he saw that article about the New York Flower Show, and suddenly everything clicked into place. 

He didn’t want to be a fucking mechanical engineer. 

He didn’t want to work at NASA, and he didn’t want to live in Florida, and he didn’t want an entire life planned out for him. 

He sure as hell didn’t want to move west with his parents. 

But suddenly, he had been sure that he wanted to be a gardener. He wanted to feel close to his Savta again, to look after the green thumb she had always told him he had. And he wanted to do it in New York. 

So he moved back to New York, rented the shittiest, crummiest apartment with his sister, and scraped together every penny so that he could find a job he wanted. It had taken months of searching, of working long hours, of crying at the kitchen table, of coming close to giving up all hope. 

Eventually, he found it: a garden centre, tucked away off of a main road, filled to bursting with plants, stacked up on rickety wooden shelves and in big, cracked pots. The owners had been an elderly couple - he likes to think that, maybe, it was fate in some way - who were hiring people who could, eventually, take over from them. He had explained to them his story - but not the one he had woven together as an academic, the one that detailed his accomplishments, his degree, his arbitrary passion for engineering. 

He had told them about his Savta. About the plants on her windowsills, and the allotment, and her runner beans, and her sunflowers. The elderly couple had given him the job on the spot. 

Buttons, Spot, and Albert had been hired not long after, and, between the four of them, they had spent the last three years transforming the tiny garden centre. If Davey hadn’t believed in fate before, the way that they had stumbled together cemented it. Through Buttons they met Sniper, through Spot they met Jojo and Smalls, through Albert they met Katherine and Elmer. 

To his vague disbelief, Davey used his engineering degree to design his garden centre, to design greenhouses and trellises that Spot (who liked to call himself the muscle-man of the group) would build out of scrap wood. They discovered very quickly that Buttons could grow vegetables like nobody else. When she entered her first contest with a award-winning tomato plant, they had spent the prize money on a little van, with their logo painted neatly on the side in Albert’s hand. Buttons took it to the local market every now and then, stocked with cuttings of her best plants. Davey would load it up with tools, and take it to customers’ gardens, planting flowerbed after flowerbed, transforming gardens in a matter of hours. 

If he was honest, he had never quite expected the managerial aspect. He spends a little longer than he would like doing paperwork, accounts, sorting out orders of pots and trays and seeds. But it’s worth it, for the time he gets to spend with his flowers, the time he gets to spend creating masterpieces out of colours. Sarah often says that there isn’t a single day in the year that a David Jacobs flower isn’t in bloom. 

To all of their utter disbelief, they attract media attention - at least, as much as a tiny local garden centre can. It’s not much, but a double-page spread, and a photo of the four of them in overalls and Wellington boots, is enough to send customers pouring in at all hours of the day. 

Davey can hardly believe, sometimes, how happy he is. Sarah long since having moved out to live with Katherine, her girlfriend, he has his own little apartment that overlooks the city, and his own fire escape with pots of flowers and a vine that curls around the railings. He has friends who aren’t just his friends because they’re on the same degree course, but who make him laugh, who comfort him when he cries, who celebrate with him, whom he loves. 

And when the call from the New York Horticultural Board comes, he is surrounded by them, to congratulate him, to share this with him. 

*

He goes for lunch a few days later with Sarah, a fleeting half-hour in the middle of their busy schedules. She’s waiting for him already when he gets there, eating a sandwich and with a ham and cheese toastie waiting for him on a plate opposite her. He collapses into the seat and takes a huge bite out of the toastie, groaning with happiness. 

‘It’s good to see you too.’ She laughs. 

‘Sarah, I love you so much.’ He says, muffled through his mouthful. 

‘You’re so gross. Close your mouth when you’re eating.’ She says, grimacing. 

‘Screw you.’ He mumbles, but swallows his mouthful. ‘How are you?’

‘Exhausted.’ She says, and she looks it. ‘They’re adding extra shows for the summer holidays and it’s killing me already.’ 

(Sarah is widely known - if you’re in those sorts of circles - as the greatest stage manager on Broadway. Her organisational skills second-to-none, she, like Davey, had spent her entire life being told that she would use them in some very academic, professional way. She had dropped out of law school after two years to work as a stage hand, and worked her way up through the ranks at record speed. Davey loves going to see her shows, just knowing that she is in charge of the whole thing, and that everything that happens on stage is because of her.)

‘Are you doing something for your anniversary tonight?’ 

‘Yes, mom.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Sniper’s taking over for me and I’m taking Kath out. Super fancy restaurant and everything. I’m gonna surprise her after work.’ 

Sarah has that look in her eyes, the wistful, dreamy look that she gets whenever she talks about Katherine. It makes Davey’s heart ache, sometimes, with happiness for his sister, but also with longing for something like she has. It’s not as though he means to spend all his time working, but it’s just worked out that way. If he has to hear one more person tell him he’s married to his work, he’s probably going to scream. 

‘Anyway.’ Sarah says, sipping at her tea. ‘Tell me about the flower show. What’s happening?’ 

‘Well.’ Davey says, chewing on his toastie. ‘I’ve been emailing the person, the representative who called. They’re called Specs, and from what I can tell, they’re in charge.’

‘Specs?’ Sarah says, sceptically. 

‘We have a friend called Spot. You work with a guy called Pie-Eater.’ 

‘Fair point. Continue.’

‘They’ve already got a lot of the flowers. They have a team of gardeners who basically build the entire exhibition, and then look after it while the show’s happening.‘ 

‘Davey, that’s so cool.’

‘I know.’ Davey says, beaming just at the thought. ‘All of the gardening and none of the managing. It’s going to be absolute bliss.’


	2. monday (am)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love this au so fucking much the more i write the more attached i get to it. buckle up folks cos it’s gonna be a good one!

On Monday morning, Buttons insists that Davey take the van to drive himself down to the convention centre. Tucked behind the steering wheel is a card that he can tell Albert made themself, with a picture of a bunch of flowers with the roots still attached, and the caption:

**we’re _rooting_ for you!**

Inside, they have each written him a message wishing him luck, and promising to take care of the garden centre while he’s away. He almost cries there and then, suddenly overwhelmed with the gravity of what he’s managed to do. 

The drive to the convention centre - which, admittedly, consists mostly of sitting in traffic - is all too short for him to collect himself, and he arrives with butterflies wreaking havoc in his stomach and his heart thundering in his ears. The guy at the entrance to the car park directs him to a section reserved just for the gardeners (and he has to contain his excitement that he has a reserved freaking parking spot!), and he parks the van next to a dozen others with similar logos drawn on their sides. He takes a quick look at his reflection in the rear-view mirror, flattening down his hair. He grabs his toolbag off the seat next to him, and heads inside. 

He gives his name at the reception desk, and, to his immense satisfaction, is given a little badge to open the doors with, that has his name on it. He clips it onto his belt loop. 

His first steps into the convention centre knock the breath clean out of his lungs. 

The ceiling is higher than he’s ever seen before, and the room stretches out for what looks like eternity. Row upon row of empty wooden shelves line the hall, forming aisles, with big timber frames for the flower displays scattered everywhere. Pushed to the sides are crates and crates of flowers, in every colour and species Davey can imagine, and several that he hadn’t even known existed. Unable to curb his excitement, he bends down to examine a crate of calendula in colours so bright he thinks they must be dyed. He lifts a flower head gently between two fingers, tilting his head ever so slightly to examine it. 

‘Careful with those.’ 

Davey jolts up at the sound of a voice, stern and chiding. 

‘I’m sorry, I was just -’

‘Yeah, well don’t. They’re fragile.’ 

The guy speaking is - well, if Davey’s being entirely honest, the only description that comes to mind is _incredibly attractive_. The guy is a little shorter than he is, with dark, tan skin and unruly, curly hair. He’s wearing a striped tank top beneath suspenders, and come on, who the hell even wears suspenders any more? This guy, apparently, and, Davey supposes, if he looked the way this guy does in suspenders, he’d wear them too. 

‘I’m a gardener, I do know -’ Davey starts, but the guy cuts him off again. 

‘Look, I don’t care who you are. Don’t touch ’em.’ The guy bends down to pick up a crate of the golden-yellow calendula, but as he does, he drops a blue notebook from where it is tucked under his arm. 

It falls open on a drawing of one of the large timber frames, with scrawls labelling the types of flowers that are going to go in certain places, and identifying the measurements of the wood. Davey picks it up, and, unable to help himself, squints closer at the drawing. 

‘Hey, that’s mine - ‘ the guy says, and he sounds tetchy and a little angry. 

‘This measurement is out by twelve degrees.’ Davey points out. He can’t help himself. Maybe if the guy had been a little nicer, he wouldn’t have said it, but he just wants the momentary satisfaction he gets from seeing the guy scowl at him. 

‘Give It here.’ The guy snatches the notebook back and snaps it shut. He tucks it back under his arm and picks up the crate of flowers. 

‘I’m just saying. You might want to check it.’ Davey shrugs, feeling unreasonably smug. 

‘Hi - you must be David? I’m Specs.’ 

Davey turns to see a person in thick-rimmed glasses and a white shirt standing behind him. They have a little black earpiece in, and a small microphone that curves around their cheek. Davey gives silent thanks to them for saving him. 

‘Yes, I am.’ He says, relieved, and holds out a hand, which Specs shakes. 

‘Everything okay, Jack?’ Specs says, to the guy with curly hair. 

‘All good, Specs.’ He says, and walks off, though not before sending another narrow-eyed glare in Davey’s direction. 

‘Don’t mind him.’ Specs says, following Davey’s gaze after him. ‘That’s Jack Kelly. Artistic director. Fantastic at what he does, but he can be... difficult.’ 

‘Right.’ Davey says, nodding. He can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Jack as he leaves, still itching with irritation. 

‘You got your badge okay?’ Specs indicates his badge, where it is hanging off his hip. Davey nods. ‘We’re good to go then. I’ll give you a quick tour, then settle you in with the other gardeners. Sound good?’ 

‘Sounds fantastic.’ Davey says, dragging his attention away from Jack. 

*

Specs shows him every inch of the convention centre. Davey’s feet ache from walking so much. He sees pumpkins the size of small children, huge palm trees, dozens and dozens of little gardens, with stone bridges and benches covered in vines. He feels like he’s in some strange kind of paradise, a half-built eden. It fills him with nervous jitters to know that he is going to help build the other half. He meets the other gardeners, and is left with his head reeling from all the new names and faces. 

Romeo, who’s in charge of decorative gardens, and who is halfway through sanding off a tiny water wheel, that will eventually feed into a river that flows through several of the miniature gardens. 

Finch, who’s in charge of vegetables, who is wearing jeans with a carrot and a tomato embroidered on each of the back pockets. Davey makes a mental note to introduce him to Buttons when she comes on Saturday. 

Best of all is when Specs shows him the flower displays he’ll be working on, huge hollow timber frames that he’s already picturing overflowing with flowers, building up images of potential patterns of colours in his mind. Already working on one, twisting a piece of wire into a complex shape, is a person in a wheelchair, who Specs introduces as Crutchie. 

From what Davey gathers, Crutchie seems to be the brains of the entire operation. They have an earpiece and microphone like Specs does, and a megaphone slung over the side of their wheelchair. Davey takes a shining to them immediately, and Crutchie makes him promise that he’ll call for them if he needs anything at all. 

Specs takes him to the back of the hall next, where it opens out onto a patio, and there are neat rows of flowerbeds spanning out into the distance. 

‘The flower displays are a big thing for us, and your expertise needs to be there some of the time, but we want you out here, too.’ Specs explains. 

‘Got it.’ Davey says, nodding. This place is truly bliss - not only does he get to do the big, ambitious displays, but he can still just do his gardening? It feels too good to be true. 

They approach a guy digging in one of the plots of earth. He’s wearing denim shorts and a tie-dye t-shirt tied at the waist, and he has an old newsboy-style cap on top of his mop of curly blonde hair. 

‘This is Racetrack. He’s kind of our handyman, so you’ll see him around a lot.’ Specs says, and the guy stops digging. 

‘Heya Specs. This the new guy?’ He says. 

‘It sure is.’ 

‘Nice to meet you.’ Racetrack says, and shakes Davey’s hand. 

‘Hold on - Racetrack?’ Davey blurts out, suddenly connecting the dots. 

‘It’s a nickname, I know it’s weird, call me Race -‘ 

‘Are you Albert’s Racetrack?’

‘Uh - yeah.’ The guy smiles at the mention of Albert’s name. He has big dimples, and Davey almost wants to laugh, overcome with happiness for Albert. 

‘We’ve been trying to get them to let us meet you for months! I can’t believe this! I - sorry, I work with them. Probably should have led with that.’ Davey says, smiling. 

‘No way, you must be David!’ Race says, grinning even wider. ‘I’ve been trying to get them to let me meet _you_!’ To Davey’s surprise, Race hugs him, quickly, with a laugh. 

‘Does everyone in this place know each other?’ Specs matters under their breath, but Davey can tell they’re smiling. 

‘Don’t be such a killjoy.’ Race rolls his eyes at Davey, and there’s something about his quick acceptance of him into his inside jokes that makes Davey feel comforted. 

‘I’m just doing my job, Higgins.’ Specs says, mock-sternly. ‘I’ll see you at lunch. C’mon, David.’

‘Okay, okay. Make sure David comes with you! A friend of Al’s is a friend of ours.’ Race waves them off, pulls his cap down over his eyes a little further, and gets back to digging. 

*

It’s days like these that make Jack question why he does what he does. 

He loves it, of course, but the first day of the flower show is always, in his opinion, far more stress than it’s worth. 

Hundreds of gardeners, builders, designers, few of whom will ever listen to his direction, a dozen of whom are new and have no idea what they’re doing, and none of whom he can ever really keep track of. 

He’s already banned three people from using bamboo (it looks messy, goddammit!), confiscated a pair of secateurs, and lost his notebook twice, and it’s not even ten o’clock. He has the notebook clamped firmly under one arm, now, determined to keep it close to him. 

Few people are allowed to look inside it, and no one but Specs has seen the entire thing. It is filled with sketches, diagrams, and designs, which collectively form the blueprint for the entire flower show. Of course, nobody can made head nor tail of it - but he likes it that way. 

As he winds his way through the aisles of the convention centre, dodging crates of flowers and people hidden behind huge potted plants, he finds his mind straying again and again to the guy he had met that morning, and the diagram he had corrected. David, he thinks he remembers Specs calling him. 

Actually, he doesn’t know why he’s pretending. He knows the guy is called David, because he hasn’t stopped thinking about him since. He just knows that he’s going to be a problem this week - one of those snarky new kids that think they know everything. Even if he had been cute. 

(Cute was an understatement. The guy had been, like, unfairly attractive for someone who was a gardening nerd. He’d been wearing these dumb green overalls, rolled up at the ankles, and with tools hanging over the edge of the big front pocket. Jack can’t stop thinking about the freckles dotted across his cheeks, his dark hair and his big blue eyes, his freaking _nose_. How could somebody’s _nose_ be attractive? But somehow, it had been, his face all soft, curving angles, and there had been something distractingly attractive about the way he had frowned down at his notebook.)

But that was altogether beside the point. 

He takes out the notebook, and decides to go find Crutchie. He can at least rely on his sibling for some sense of organisation around here, and, at the very least, they can advise him on whether or not the calculation is wrong. 

What he had not bargained on was David and Crutchie working on the same display. There are two or three others with them, curving wire around a big wooden frame that Jack had designed, ready for flowers to be threaded through to create a wall of petals in swooping shades of blue.

David is sitting cross-legged on a stool, so that he can work on the same bit of wire frame as Crutchie. They are chatting animatedly, and David is laughing at something Crutchie has just said. Something twists in Jack’s gut when he sees him smiling. 

‘Hey, Jack!’ Crutchie calls, when they notice him. 

‘Hey, Crutchie.’ Jack says. ‘David.’ He nods at David. 

‘Did you figure out that I’m right, yet?’ David says nonchalantly, nodding at the notebook in Jack’s hands. Jack grits his teeth, and ignores him. 

‘Could you check this for me, Crutchie?’ He passes them the notebook, and they take a pencil from behind their ear, quickly re-calculating. Jack waits, tapping his foot and looking determinedly anywhere but at David. 

‘I think you’re out by about twelve degrees.’ Crutchie says finally, scratching their head thoughtfully, in a caricature of an academic. ‘David, would you check?’ 

‘I’m sure you’re right, Crutchie - ‘ Jack reaches out to grab the notebook back, but they’re already passing it to David, who looks unbearably smug. David takes the notebook and pencil from Crutchie. He only looks at it for about ten seconds, before handing it back. 

‘Twelve degrees out. Like I said.’ He says, with a quirk of his eyebrows. 

‘How the hell do you do that?’ Crutchie says, awestruck, shaking their head. David just laughs and shrugs. 

Jack glowers down at the calculations that Crutchie has done. He knows they’re right, loathe as he is to admit it. 

‘You’re welcome.’ David says, when Jack doesn’t respond. Jack looks up at him, which is a mistake. He’s smirking, and there’s a self-satisfied gleam in his eye that makes Jack want to throttle him. 

This is going to be a long fucking week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are the highlights of my day! even if it’s just something small or anonymous they are so so so appreciated. or on tumblr @weisenbachfelded!!  
> sending love to you all xx


	3. monday (pm)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is maybe kind of bitty? idk. anyway i adore this au and it seems like it’s going down well so!!!! thank u to everyone commenting

Jack stacks up his lunch tray with as much food as he can - pasta, bread, chips, cookies, and an apple for good measure. He immediately spots Race and his friends, crowded around a table in the corner. It is only when he’s about halfway towards them when he notices David sitting with them, telling some story that has the others in fits of laughter. _For fuck’s sake._

He seriously considers turning around and finding somewhere else to eat, but reminds himself that would be completely immature and entirely inappropriate. In other words, he only doesn’t do it to maintain his personal sense of superiority over the hot new guy. David. Whatever. 

‘Jack! This is David.’ Race says, excitedly, before he’s even had the chance to sit down. ‘He’s a gardener.’

‘Yeah, we’ve met.’ Jack says, tightly. 

Race ignores him. ‘He works with Albert!’ 

‘Your Albert?’ 

‘Yeah, my Albert.’ Race rolls his eyes, and he smiles, just like he always does when someone mentions Albert. It’s sickeningly sweet, and it makes Jack feel a little hollow, to see just how happy they are together. Twenty-three and already in it for the long run. It makes his one-bedroom apartment and his cat feel incredibly lonely, and a little childish. 

‘How are you finding it, David?’ Race asks, leaning across the table so that they can hear each other over Romeo and Finch’s argument over the last finger of Finch’s Kit-Kat. 

‘It’s amazing.’ Davey says, and he sounds a little breathless. ‘This has been a dream for like, forever, and it’s so much more beautiful than I imagined.’ 

‘It’s pretty damn special.’ Race says. ‘Where are you this afternoon?’ 

‘Outside, I think. Specs wants me to start on the first few flowerbeds.’ 

‘Brilliant.’ Race grins. ‘I’ll come hang out with you, then.’ 

Jack makes a mental note to stay away from the outside flower beds for the remainder of the afternoon. 

*

Davey drives straight to the garden centre when he finishes at five o’clock, just as he had promised. Albert, Spot, Sarah, and Buttons are waiting for him, Spot sitting cross legged on the counter, and Buttons locking up the back store cupboard. They all shout when he walks in, asking a thousand questions at once. 

‘Slow down!’ He says, as Sarah wraps her arms around him, and Albert brings him over a mug of tea. 

‘So, tell us everything!’ Albert says. 

‘I don’t even know where to start.’ Davey says, taking the tea and sitting down for what feels like the first time in hours. ‘Hold on, no - I do know where to start. Why didn’t you tell me Racetrack was working there?’ He says to Albert, accusatory. 

‘You met Racetrack?’ Spot asks. ‘ _The_ Racetrack?’

‘The man, the myth, the legend.’ Davey nods. 

‘Holy shit, Albert! Does that mean we all get to meet him?’ Buttons asks excitedly. 

‘I - yeah - ‘ Albert mumbles, turning red. ‘Sorry, Dave. I was gonna mention it, but it just didn’t come up and - ‘

‘Al, I don’t actually care. He’s so nice.’ 

Albert smiles, sheepishly. ‘You really think?’ They ask. 

‘He’s great. He let me sit with his friends at lunch.’ Davey says. ‘And he’s like, super hot, so congratulations.’ That makes Albert blush even redder - a fairly impressive feat, Davey thinks. 

‘What are the plants like?’ Spot asks. 

‘Amazing. They’re - I don’t even know how to describe it. I can’t wait for you guys to see them. There’s these huge displays that we have to build up with flowers, and - oh, Buttons, just you wait til you see the vegetables.’

‘I’m so excited to see it, Dave, you don’t even know.’ Buttons says, her face lighting up. Davey beams with happiness. 

*

When Jack gets back to his apartment, and hears voices from inside, he is hardly surprised. Living in the same apartment block as your sibling tended to mean that there was always a gathering of people somewhere - often in his own living room. 

Crutchie, Finch, Race, Katherine, Specs, and Romeo are all crowded into his apartment. It’s a little excessive, even for them, to all be round at his on the first night of the flower show. 

‘Hey, guys.’ He says tiredly, as he dumps his bag on the floor and kicks off his shoes. 

‘Jack, don’t just leave your shoes lying around.’ Katherine chastises. 

‘I live alone, Kath.’ He says, but she isn’t paying attention. He moves his shoes to the side, so they’re not in the middle of the hall. 

As tired as he is, it makes him smile to see his friends, spilled haphazardly across his apartment. Race is lying flat on his back on the kitchen table, holding his phone to his ear. From the dreamy-eyed look on his face, he’s speaking to Albert. Kath is lying on the sofa with her head in Specs’ lap, while Crutchie describes something to them that involves a lot of gesturing with their hands. Finch is sitting on the floor, gazing up at Crutchie with quiet admiration in his eyes. The both of them are so oblivious it makes Jack want to scream. 

Romeo makes his way out of the kitchen, doing an intricate balancing act of carrying four Coke cans and a mug of herbal tea. Jack takes one of the cans, and Romeo wobbles, almost dropping the others. He hands out the drinks, then settles down on the arm of the sofa with his mug of tea. 

‘Crutchie was just saying how good they think the displays are going to look this year.’ Specs says. 

‘You’re doing a brilliant job on ‘em, Crutchie.’ Jack says, holding up his hands. ‘It’s you that makes ‘em look good.’

‘Aw, come off it, Jack.’ Crutchie blushes. 

‘He’s right.’ Finch says. ‘The stuff you do is beautiful.’

Katherine looks at Jack, and rolls her eyes, almost imperceptibly. He gives her a stony look. 

‘I’m gonna go get a tea, actually.’ Kath says. 

‘But you just said you didn’t -‘ Romeo protests. 

‘Changed my mind!’ Kath jumps up off the sofa, and Jack follows her past Race, sprawled out on the table, and into the kitchen. 

‘They’re gonna kill me.’ Jack groans, once they’re in the kitchen. ‘Eight hours a day I gotta listen to those two pine after each other.’ Katherine nods in agreement. 

‘Stressful day?’ She asks, putting the kettle on. 

‘It always is.’ He says. ‘It’ll be a million times better once you’re there.’

‘I’m in on Friday.’ She says. ‘They want me to do interviews with gardeners as well as a review, so.’ She takes a mug and a teabag from the cupboard. ‘Any recommendations of who I should talk to?’ 

‘Crutchie, obviously.’ He says, thinking. ‘None of the new guys. They’re all hopeless - ‘

‘You always say that.’ Katherine rolls her eyes at him. 

‘Oh, but this time, I mean it. There’s this one guy, this gardener - god, he’s annoying.’

‘You always say that.’ She repeats. 

‘Shut up, Kath.’ She raises her eyebrows again, and sips her tea. ‘He thinks he knows _everything_ and he kept trying to correct my drawings and he’s got these - ‘ Jack breaks off, gesturing ‘- these blue eyes that are so _judge-y_ and - ‘

‘Jack.’ Kath says, looking at him over the top of her cup. ‘Are you sure you think he’s annoying?’ 

‘Yes! He’s the most annoying person I’ve ever met!’ 

‘Is he hot?’ 

‘Yes!’ He says, without thinking. ‘Wait, hold on - no - ‘

‘Jesus christ.’ Kath shakes her head. 

‘He’s not even - I just mean he’s - ‘

He is interrupted by Kath’s phone ringing. He can just make out Sarah’s name on the screen. She picks up and walks straight out of the kitchen, rolling her eyes. 

*

As much as he complains when they’re crowded in, Jack’s apartment feels very empty once everyone has left. He clears up the empty mugs and cans, draws the curtains, switches on a lamp, and curls up on the sofa, where Katherine had been sitting earlier. Gigi twines herself around his ankles, purring contentedly when he scratches in between her ears.

He loves his apartment. He loves his life. He gets to do his art, and paint backdrops for his mom’s shows, and organise the flower show, and to come home to his cat and his own place. He knows he’s lucky to be part of a tiny minority who can actually live off doing what he loves, seven days a week, and he loves it, he really does. 

Only sometimes, he wishes that he’d had a bit more time for other things. Non-stop design jobs and deadlines had trickled into job offers and gallery exhibitions and Specs asking him to design an entire freaking flower show, and in-between, it felt like everybody had taken the time to breathe, leaving him still gasping for air. 

He’d lived with Racetrack, for a long time - until he’d moved out to live with Albert. And then with Katherine and Specs - until they’d found Sarah and Romeo. And suddenly, he was making enough money to pay rent on his own, and it just made sense for him not to find a new roommate. But it’s evenings like these, when it’s warm outside, and the sun is setting, that he wishes there was someone there to watch the sunset with. Someone to draw the curtains, while he cleared up the mess his friends left. 

He tries not to think too much about it. He puts on music, just for the sake of having noise, and gets out a battered sketchpad and pencil. He draws the convention centre, still in its bare bones, the crates of flowers stacked at the sides, the flurry of gardeners and designers and organisers rushing around. He draws Katherine in the kitchen - barely her, just her eyes, looking at him over a mug of tea. He draws the outline of Race, lying flat on his back on the kitchen table. Gigi mewls, and places a paw on top of his paper. He tries to nudge her off with his pencil, but ends up playing a very intricate game that involves her thinking the pencil is alive, and him trying not to get clawed as she swipes her paws at it.

Once she has finally settled down again, he finds himself drawing the convention centre again, the big timber frame that he had designed, and the outline of Crutchie in their chair, twisting wire. He draws someone sitting, cross legged on a stool, the cuffs of their dungarees rolled up. He pauses when he comes to the facial features, sketching the faintest curve of a nose, dark eyebrows, gleaming eyes. He flips the page over, quickly. 

And then he draws them again. Still just faint lines - a curved nose, soft, angular features, and eyes that - 

He stares down at the page. The features are almost unintelligible, the lines so light that they are almost invisible. It’s a good study in facial features. Roman nose. Eyes wide open. High cheekbones. Hair in a side parting. Technical terms for drawing portraits, learned way back in art school. 

He flips the page back to the drawing of Race on the table, and begins to fill in the details, instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love to u all!  
> comments are the highlights of my day so leave one pls !!!


	4. tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just 2k of jack finding davey attractive and im not sorry for it in any way shape or form

Davey surprises even himself that he falls into the routine of the flower show as quickly as he does. He meets Crutchie at the front desk, and they go to the break room together. He carries both their mugs of tea, and Crutchie takes his toolbag on their lap, and they carry on working on the same display as yesterday. 

He greets people as they pass, half-surprised that most of them recognise him, let alone remember his name. He prides himself on remembering the names of everybody who greets him, which Crutchie tells him is very impressive. His chest glows with pride at that, feeling like he is inching closer and closer to really belonging. 

All around him, he can see things beginning to come together. With every passing moment, the hall looks less like a convention centre and more like some mystical world, full of plants that belong nowhere near each other, archways that look like portals, sculptures that defy the laws of nature and of gravity. 

‘Morning, David!’ Specs says, as soon as they see him. They are carrying a clipboard with rows and rows of scribbled writing on it that Davey can make neither head nor tail of. They seem to understand it, though, running a finger down and jabbing it excitedly when they reach a point that Davey thinks must be his name. 

‘Can we have you working on the rose bushes this morning?’ They ask. 

‘Absolutely.’ Davey grins. He doesn’t have a favourite flower - he loves them all equally, of course - but if he did (and he definitely doesn’t) it might be roses. He grows big white ones on an archway around the entrance to the garden centre, and it’s one of his proudest pieces. 

‘And then this afternoon, Jack’s directing us making the big tunnel.’ 

Davey nods. He’s seen the sketches of the tunnel - a huge walkway covered in flowers, the blooms woven together to create a canopy of colours. Of course it was _Jack_ who designed it. 

He reminds himself not to be so mean - of course, he’s got nothing really to hold against Jack. He might be a little mean and snarky, but that was no reason not to tolerate him. And who could deny him a little teasing while he was at it? 

*

‘Hey, Jack!’ Specs calls after him. Jack turns, to see them scribbling something on their infamous clipboard without even looking at it. ‘You excited for this afternoon?’ 

‘Yeah.’ Jack says. ‘Nervous. I just hope it looks good.’ 

‘Oh, it will, don’t be so humble.’ Specs says. 

‘Have you let all the gardeners know we’re working on it today?’ 

‘Sure have.’ Specs says. ‘With the new ones on the team, it should look incredible. I can’t wait to see what David does with it.’ With that, they walk off, and Jack is left, yet again, thinking of David when he hadn’t even wanted to. 

Well, if he‘s being completely honest, he had already been thinking of David. He had thought (hoped?) that maybe he should go and be the one to tell David about the flower archway. Just to be sure he knows. 

He wanders through the convention centre, correcting a few gardeners who aren’t quite executing his visions correctly. He finds himself wandering towards the back of the hall, where it opens up into outdoor flowerbeds. 

David is outside, sat up on his knees and tending to a large rosebush. A part of Jack knows that he shouldn’t talk to him, that they’ll just end up antagonising each other, and then Race will be annoyed at him, and it will all be far more trouble than it’s worth. 

That part of Jack, however, is distilled significantly by the fact that David has ditched his dungarees today, and is instead wearing a pair of cutoff denim shorts, frayed at the edges, just above his knees, along with a plain black t-shirt that is surely too tight to be comfortable in the heat. Jack hasn’t really noticed before - and why would he? - that David is kind of... strong. The combination of shorts and t-shirt means that Jack is suddenly very aware of the muscles in his arms as he works, and in his calves. Were leg muscles even supposed to be attractive? That sounds like a weird sentence, even in his head. His throat feels a little dry. 

He coughs quietly, prompting David to look up at him. His face falls the moment he sees him. 

‘Oh. It’s you.’

‘No need to sound so disappointed, Davey.’ Jack says, trying his best to sound mockingly affronted, and effortlessly unbothered. 

‘Don’t call me that.’ He says, expression stony. 

‘Whatever.’ He feels like he’s putting altogether far too much effort into seeming like he’s putting in no effort at all. 

‘What do you want? Need more help with your calculations?’ David asks, with a smirk. Oh, that absolute son of a -

‘No, I don’t. I came to tell you we’re starting work on the archway this afternoon.’

‘Cool. Thanks.’ David says. He carries on working. Jack stays quiet for a moment, not wanting to leave just yet, but not quite knowing what else he can say that will get David to carry on talking to him. 

‘You’re young.’ Jack blurts out. He’s not quite sure why he says it, but he knows that he doesn’t want to go back to his other work just yet. 

‘I’m twenty-five.’ He says, not looking up. 

‘That’s young for here.’ Jack says. It might not be true among his friends, but almost everyone who doesn’t have to do physical work around this place is over fifty. 

‘Do you have a point?’ 

‘Not really. Just wonderin’ how you ended up as a gardener.’

‘I did mechanical engineering at MIT.’ Davey says, tone clipped and exasperated. ‘I hated it. Started gardening straight after, and never stopped.’ 

‘No good as an engineer, huh?’ 

‘I graduated top of my class.’ 

Jack lets out a low whistle. ‘Well, look at you.’ 

David shoots him a glare. ‘Is the interview over?’ 

‘You married?’ Jack asks, just to piss him off. Well. Maybe not just to piss him off. 

‘Nope.’

‘Ah, married to the job, I see.’ Jack nods, mockingly serious. David glowers up at him again. ‘Hey, I didn’t mean it as a bad thing! I am, too.’ He wiggles his fingers, in the place where a wedding ring might be, and immediately wants to slap himself in the face for how ridiculous it must look. 

David, to his surprise, smiles a little at that, though he quickly stops himself when he realises. Jack can feel himself blushing, and he has a sudden urge to jump into the flowerbed nearest to him and sink into the earth in embarrassment. 

‘Uh - anyway, I’d better -‘ Jack motions somewhere behind him. 

‘Okay.’ David says, 

‘I’ll see you at lunch, Davey.’ 

Davey glares at him, and then, with a glint in his eye, smirks. ‘See you around, Jackie.’ 

Jack turns away as quickly as possible, marching hurriedly in the opposite direction. His face is burning, and he just knows there’s a blush spreading right to the very tips of his ears. God, he can’t _stand_ Davey. David. Whatever. 

*

Davey and Crutchie are assigned a section of the flower tunnel to build, winding flowers gently through the wire frame and strapping them on so as not to damage the blooms. Jack is darting around, showing people exactly the way he wants the flowers to look, and correcting their technique. When they get it right, a huge smile spreads across his face, his dimples popping out. Davey looks determinedly away from him. 

‘You’re doing it wrong.’ 

He doesn’t even want to look up. Of course it’s Jack, come to criticise him already, even though there’s nothing to criticise him for. Davey knows he’s done a better job than anyone else there - besides, maybe, Crutchie. His section of the wall of flowers, although hardly noticeable, is more tightly woven, the colours more painstakingly organised, the flowers less damaged and still pristine. 

‘No, I’m not.’ He says, even though he’s actually not sure if he is or not. 

‘Yes, you are.’ Jack retorts. ‘If you thread them under like that, the stems will snap.’ 

Fantastic. He _is_ right. Jack might be an artist, but he doesn’t know everything about flowers. Davey knows that the stems won’t snap - he’s been securing them with tape, hidden so discreetly that they look as though they are hanging there by the will of some supernatural force. The stems are fine, wrapped under the wire, but he can kind of understand why Jack might think they aren’t. He doesn’t care, though. If Jack wants a fight, he can have one. 

‘I’ll trust you to let me do my job.’ Davey says, tersely. 

‘I would if you weren’t screwing it up.’ Jack snaps. 

‘Don’t act like you even know what you’re doing. If you had any idea how to - ‘

‘ _Excuse_ me? You’re ruining my exhibit and now you’re telling me _I’m_ the one that - ‘

‘He’s right, Jack.’ Crutchie says, without looking up from their own work. ‘Check his tape.’ 

Jack glowers at them, muttering something under his breath, but he bends over to look at the way that the flowers have been wound around the wire frame of the tunnel and taped down. Davey watches, satisfaction building in his chest. At least, he thinks it’s satisfaction. He’s fairly certain it is. Moderately certain. 

It might have something to do with the way that Jack is currently very close to him, his jaw clenched tight in frustration, all sharp angles and lines. Or the way his dimples have disappeared, and Davey finds himself wanting them to return, to find a way to make them return. 

‘Are you going to apologise to David?’ Crutchie says, looking over at Davey and winking. Davey grins back. God, Crutchie is fantastic. Jack stands up straight again, and takes a deep breath through his nose, eyes fluttering briefly closed. 

‘I’m sorry, Davey.’ He says, emphasising the nickname just because he knows it will piss him off. 

‘No problem, Jackie.’ Davey says, smugly. ‘You know, if you needed advice on how to do it more neatly - ‘ he gestures towards the flowers ‘ - then you can just ask.’ 

Jack storms off without another word. Crutchie stifles a laugh, and Davey whispers a quiet thanks to them. 

Davey watches out of the corner of his eye as Jack takes a seat on a nearby upturned crate, and pulls out a little black sketchbook. He takes a pencil out from his jeans pocket and begins to draw, eyes flicking up every few seconds. Davey thinks he must be drawing the tunnel, perhaps re-thinking the design, or something. 

He tries not to watch him, he really does. But he finds his gaze drifting, every few moments, back to Jack, bent over his sketchbook. On more than one occasion, their eyes meet. Either Jack is looking, when Davey glances over, and they both turn away, neither wanting to acknowledge it. On the most mortifying of occasions, Davey is already staring when Jack lifts his gaze to meet Davey’s. Every time he does, it feels as though the blood drains from his body, leaving him frozen to the spot. 

He wonders, absently, if Jack is drawing the gardeners in his diagram of the tunnel. If, just maybe, Jack is drawing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *lina from singin in the rain voice* i can’t stand him!
> 
> leave me a comment!! ill literally love you forever. ill love you even more if u reblog the post for this fic on tumblr @weisenbachfelded .... 👀


	5. wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter ..... hm. it’s got a lot of ideas very messily arranged but it’s 1am and i love it so !!!  
> (there are some translations in the end notes)

They continue working on the tunnel the next day, and Jack has to admit that it does look kind of magical. The flowers are woven together to look like a shifting maze of colours, and the shades look as though they run into each other, smooth and gentle and perfect. It’s even better than he had imagined it. 

He is fixing a flower with holes in its leaves, when Specs suddenly runs past him, looking frantic. They have a phone pressed up against their ear, and a hand covering the speaker, looking around worriedly. 

‘Can anyone here speak French?’ They whisper-shout. 

‘Specs, what the hell?’ Race asks, as Specs dashes past him, knocking a flower out of his hands in their haste. 

‘There’s someone on the line and they’re only speaking French! I heard the words _New York_ and _horticulture_ so I think it’s important.’ 

Jack sees David look up at that, as though he is considering something for a moment. 

‘Give it here.’ David sighs. Specs hands him the phone, and he holds it to his ear. ‘ _Bonjour? Ah, désolé, monsieur. Mon collègue ne parle pas le français. Tout va bien maintenant._ ’

Jack’s mouth falls open. He would be embarrassed, but nearly everyone else in the vicinity has a similar expression on their face, watching as Davey leans on his spade, chatting animatedly in perfect French. 

‘ _Non, je suis jardinier. Oui, ce sera un honneur. Attendez un moment. Merci._ ’ Davey covers the mouthpiece, and speaks to Specs. ‘They’re from the French National Horticultural Society. They’re checking it’s still okay for them to send some ambassadors to report on the show.’

‘Oh, shit.‘ Specs looks around, wildly, as if they’re not the most senior person currently there. ‘I’d forgotten I said they could do that. Say it’s fine, we’ll sort it out later.’

‘ _Monsieur? Oui, c’est bien. Il y aura quelqu’un qui vous rencontrera quand vous arrivez._ ’ There is a short silence while the person on the other end speaks, and then Davey laughs. Jack’s throat goes dry. ‘ _Pas de problème. Bien. Au revoir, au revoir._ ’ He hangs up and passes the phone back to Specs. ‘What?’ He says, when everyone looks at him blankly. 

‘You can speak French.’ Specs says. 

‘Yeah. It’s on my résumé.’ Davey shrugs. 

‘Don’t say it like that! I didn’t read your résumé! All I needed to know was whether you could garden or not!’ Specs says. 

‘Oh.‘ Davey says, and shrugs a little awkwardly. ‘Well, I can do flower language, too if you need it!’ He jokes. 

‘How many languages can you speak?’ Race says, looking impressed. 

David frowns counting on his fingers. ‘Polish and Yiddish are my native languages. French, Italian. English, of course. A bit of Spanish?’

‘ _Muy impresionante. Debería haber leído su currículum._ ’ Specs says, nodding, a smile spreading across their face. 

‘ _Muchas gracias_.’ David says, smiling back. Jack’s collar feels a little too tight. 

He has to admit, this entire thing is feeling a little ridiculous. Davey is quite possibly the most infuriating person he has ever had the misfortune to encounter. How on earth did it work out that someone with such a terrible personality had to be so attractive? And so intelligent to boot? It all feels a little too muddled up for Jack’s liking, and he can’t quite seem to piece everything together. 

‘You’re staring.’ 

Jack jolts out of his stupor at Davey’s words, and scowls at him. 

‘No, I’m not.’ He says. Even though he most definitely was. But he was only staring because he had been caught up in a daydream, which _definitely_ didn’t count. ‘I didn’t know you could speak all those languages.’ He says, to pull David’s attention somewhere else. 

David just shrugs. ‘I don’t mention it if it’s not relevant. I just picked them up along the way.’ 

‘It’s really cool.’ Jack says. Davey looks at him funny when he says that, frowning a little bit. 

‘Thanks.’ He says, slowly. He turns away to speak to Crutchie, immediately laughing at something they say. The sound makes Jack itch with irritation. He wants to bang his head against the frame of the tunnel. The only thing that stops him is the fact that Davey would definitely turn around again if he did that, and he doesn’t want to give him another reason to think he’s more weird and annoying than he already does. 

*

Davey can’t stand working in the greenhouses. They’re too humid, too stuffy, and they make his hair curl in a way that he hates. He had been hoping to spend little more than ten minutes in here, but he and Racetrack have been assigned to take care of over fifty different plants, and they’re only halfway through checking them. 

Race doesn’t seem to mind - he has a locker nearby with a change of clothes for when he goes into the greenhouse. He loves working in here, and Davey tells him he must be cold blooded like a lizard or something to enjoy it. Race puts it all down to the spare clothes in his locker, and, after all, he is a veteran at this, so Davey listens to him. 

(‘It sounds gross, but you get so sweaty in there. It’s nice to have a change of clothes when you come out.’ Race had said, and handed Davey a pair of shorts and a tank top. 

Davey had not bargained on just how short the shorts were, and he would feel a little self-conscious if it didn’t feel like he was in the seventh layer of hell in that greenhouse. He was willing to do anything to make it a little more bearable.)

He has to admit, gardening gloves, a tank top, and tiny shorts is not the best look he’s ever worn. Compared to Race, though, in his watermelon-patterned shorts, he feels surprisingly okay about it. 

They fall into a routine with a practiced ease, tending to the plants in a kind of tag-team fashion. It makes Davey glow with a quiet kind of pride to be able to work so well with Race. 

‘Jack said you’re an engineer.’ Race says, while they’re straightening out a grapevine that has become tangled. 

‘Jack said - why did Jack say that?’ Davey says, confused. Race gives him an indecipherable look, head tilted to the side, frowning. 

‘I dunno. It came up.’ Race says, finally. Davey has a feeling that he’s not saying everything that he’s thinking, but he tries not to dwell on it. 

‘Yeah, I am. I was. It just wasn’t what I loved, though.’

‘I get that.’ Race says. ‘I was the same. Chemistry major. I dropped out after six months when I realised I hated every class I was in. Bein’ in the classroom was just too... ‘ he trails off, looking for the right word. 

‘Claustrophobic?’ Davey asks. 

‘Yeah.’ Race smiles at him, looking up from his work. ‘Like I was confined.’

‘Like you didn’t know what you were missing until you started gardening?’

‘Exactly like that.’ Race nods. ‘It helped that I met Al then, too.’ 

‘Oh yeah?’ Davey asks. Albert rarely talks about their personal life - they just like to keep their friends separate, which Davey can understand. He often wishes that he could know just a little bit more, but that wish is always followed swiftly by the resignation that he is exactly the same. 

‘We met on my first gardening job.’ Race looks down as he speaks, concentrating on his work. Davey can tell he’s suppressing a smile, from the way he’s biting his lip, as though the very thought of Albert is enough to light up his entire being. ‘I got to fall in love with my job at the same time as I fell in love with them.’ 

Davey feels as though all the air has been knocked out of him, his lungs folding in on themselves. He’s seen that same light in Albert a million times before, at the mention of Racetrack’s name, at the buzzing of their phone with a text. He’s seen it come out of nowhere, when Albert’s been planting, a sudden lifting of their every feature, a brightening of their being, and he has known that they are thinking of Race. 

He often wonders what exactly it is that has reminded them of him. A flower that he likes? A customer who looked a little like him? Or is their love such that they don’t need anything to remind them of him, but that the cycle of their thoughts will inevitably bring them back to him? 

‘They really love you.’ Davey says, smiling at Race. 

‘I know.’ Race says. Davey thinks he might cry. 

The moment is, unsurprisingly, shattered by a voice behind them. 

‘Oh no, not the watermelon shorts!’ 

Davey grits his teeth so hard he’s surprised they don’t disintegrate into dust in his mouth. Can he not have five fucking minutes free of Jack? 

‘You’re damn right, it’s the watermelon shorts!’ Race laughs, and Jack groans. Davey doesn’t turn around, not wanting to so much as look at Jack. He thinks that, from where he is standing, he is hidden from Jack’s view. At the very least, Jack won’t be able to tell that he’s wearing Racetrack’s freaking _booty shorts_. The last thing he needs is to give Jack extra ammunition with which to antagonise him. 

‘We’re having a problem with some roses.’ Jack explains. ‘Would you come take a look?’ 

‘Oh, Dave is, like, a rose expert!’ Race says, excitedly. ‘He can do it for you!’ 

Though he had thought it quite impossible, Davey manages to grit his teeth even harder. He puts down his secateurs and moves into Jack’s line of view. He immediately regrets it. 

The greenhouse has made him feel disgusting, all sweaty and uncomfortable, and, stood opposite Jack, cool and unfazed, he feels like a mess. He thinks, for a brief moment, that it is an awful shame Jack is as annoying as he is. He is, somehow, still just as attractive as he had been that first moment he saw him. There is something about the way he smiles, all dimples and scrunched-up eyes, that makes Davey’s stomach feel like a screwed-up piece of paper, all uncomfortable, as though it is filled with nerves. 

It makes him want to punch Jack in his stupid mouth. Although, thinking that does little to quell the discomfort in his stomach. 

‘I - that’s an exaggeration.’ Davey says, exasperatedly. ‘I like roses a lot, that’s all. I can help with them, if you need it.’ 

Jack doesn’t reply. He looks a little as though he has been knocked out cold, staring blankly at Davey. His mouth is hanging open a little, his eyes flicking, ever so slightly, up and down. 

‘Jack?’ Davey says, and Race waves a hand in front of his face. 

‘Hm?’ 

‘Do you want me to help or not?’

‘Oh. Yeah. Sure.’ Jack looks away from him, blushing a little. Davey suddenly wants to run his fingers over it, over the pink flush high on his cheekbones. He pushes the thought firmly to the back of his mind. 

‘No need to sound so excited. When do you need me?’

‘Uh - I’m not sure yet. It’s kind of hit-and-miss - ‘ Jack is stumbling over his words. 

‘Right. Any estimate?’ Davey says. He doesn’t have the energy for this. 

‘Not - not really.’ 

Davey takes a deep breath, jaw clenched. Is he really going to have to prompt Jack’s every sentence? 

‘Just - give me your phone. I’ll put my number in, text me when you need me.’ Davey holds out a hand. It takes a moment, but Jack hands over his phone, and Davey quickly taps in his number. ‘Right. There you go.’ 

‘Thanks.’ 

‘No problem.’ Davey says. He turns around again and carries on working with his secateurs. He can hear Race and Jack talking quietly behind him, but he clatters around with his tools enough to drown them out. 

He could be wrong, but he’s fairly sure he can hear Jack saying something about shorts, followed by the familiar sound of Race laughing. 

*

It doesn’t take too long for a text to come through from an unknown number, which Davey assumes, from the brevity of the message, is from Jack. 

**romeo’s gardens in 5**

‘I gotta go.’ Davey says to Race, waving his phone.

‘Have fun.’ Race says, a mischievous glint in his eye. Davey decides not to question it, and shoots off a quick text to Jack. 

_On my way._

He kind of wishes he had changed out of the shorts. Crutchie wolf-whistles as he passes, and he shoots them a wink, which makes them laugh.

‘Don’t let Jack see you like that!’ Finch calls, from where he is - for some reason - sat cross-legged on the floor next to Crutchie. 

‘It’s too late for that!’ Davey laughs. ‘He’ll be making fun of me non-stop.’ 

‘That’s not - never mind.’ Finch says, and Davey isn’t quite sure what he means. ‘You look great!’ 

‘Nice shorts, Jacobs.’ Romeo says, when he reaches the corner of the hall that they are in. ‘They Race’s?’ 

‘Who else’s would they be?’ Davey says, rolling his eyes. 

Jack is standing behind him, surrounded by a pile of roses, and looking a strange mixture between confused, angry, and distraught. When he sees Davey, he frowns, and buries his face in his hands. Right. Great start. 

*

To be fair, if Jack hadn’t wanted to be teased, he could have taken the subway home. Instead, he spends a quarter of an hour in Race’s car, listening to him cackle with glee at the way Jack blushes at the mention of David in those shorts. 

‘I can’t believe you won’t just ask him out.’ Race says, once he has (almost) stopped laughing. 

‘I hate him.’ Jack says, deadpan. ‘He hates me.’ 

‘You’re so annoying.’ Race replies. ‘If you hated him, you wouldn’t even give him the time of day. You literally go and find him every five minutes just for the chance to annoy him.’ 

‘I do not!’ Jack protests. Race looks over at him sideways. ‘I hate you as well.’ He grumbles. ‘I can’t believe you gave him those shorts. Fuck.’ He leans his elbows on the dashboard, and covers his face with his hands. ‘How can someone be so annoying and so hot at the same time? Like, how is that even fair?’ 

‘I don’t know how much longer I can listen to this.’ Race says, shaking his head, as they pulls up outside Jack’s apartment. Jack doesn’t respond to that. 

‘Thanks for the ride.’ 

‘Any time.’ Race grins. ‘Oh, except tomorrow. Date night.’ 

‘No problem. I’ll get the subway.’

‘Y’know, David has a van - ‘

‘Don’t say it.’ 

‘Okay, okay.’ Race laughs. ‘I’m just saying.’ 

‘I hate you.’

‘Give my love to Gigi!’

‘She hates you, too.’ 

*

Sometimes, Davey feels a little guilty for the amount of time he spends complaining to his sister on the phone. She hears far too much of his problems. She tells him, often, that he should get a cat, to which he usually replies that cats don’t give as good advice as she does. 

She hangs up a little early tonight, and, though she gives her excuses, he can hear Katherine calling her in the background, and he knows that she needs to get back to her. 

He stares at the ‘call ended’ screen for a moment too long, ears ringing with the sudden silence. He hovers his finger over his phone for a moment, not quite ready to settle down alone. But, he thinks, Race is with Albert, Sarah with Kath, and Buttons and Spot probably somewhere getting far too drunk than is appropriate for a Wednesday night when they have work in the morning. 

Without even thinking, he opens up his messages, and clicks on his most recent message, sent to an unknown number. 

**romeo’s gardens in 5**

_On my way._

He just stares at it for a moment, unsure, his fingers poised over the keyboard. He doesn’t know what he would even say, what he would want out of a conversation. He doubts they could even have one without dissolving into an argument. 

All of a sudden, the tiny grey bubble pops up to indicate that Jack is typing. 

Davey forgets how to breathe. He feels his heart rate quickening. What could he possibly want? Surely he has nothing left even to argue with him about. 

And then, as quickly as it had appeared, the bubble is gone. Davey blinks at his phone. He wonders, briefly, if he imagined it. He’s not quite sure, though, that he would be feeling such disappointment if it had merely been a figment of his imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> polyglot davey is such a specific hc and ik i forced it in here but idc!! i love it. french and some spanish are the only other languages i speak but that doesn’t mean ive written them perfectly plEase correct me if im wrong!  
> here are some translations:  
>  _Bonjour? Ah, désolé, monsieur. Mon collègue ne parle pas le français. Tout va bien maintenant._ \- Hello? Ah, I’m sorry, sir. My colleague doesn’t speak French. Everything’s okay now. 
> 
> _Non, je suis jardinier. Oui, ce sera un honneur. Attendez un moment. Merci._ ’ - No, I’m a gardener. Yes, it would be an honour. Wait a moment. Thank you. 
> 
> _Monsieur? Oui, c’est bien. Il y aura quelqu’un qui vous rencontrera quand vous arrivez._ \- Sir? Yes, it’s okay. There will be someone who will meet you when you arrive. 
> 
> _Pas de problème. Bien. Au revoir, au revoir._ \- No problem. Okay. Goodbye, goodbye. 
> 
> _Muy impresionante. Debería haber leído su currículum._ \- Very impressive. I should’ve read your résumé. 
> 
> _Muchas gracias_.- Thank you very much.


	6. thursday (am)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im incapable of updating at a normal time happy 1am if it’s that time for u!!

Jack is woken up not by his alarm, but rather by a heavy weight on his chest. Still engrossed in his dreaming, he gets the alarming feeling that he’s drowning, before he jolts awake, to see Gigi staring down at him, sat bolt upright on his chest. 

He shoves her off groggily, but she jumps straight back up, curling up and pushing her head under his chin, desperate to be cuddled. 

‘You’re so annoying.’ He mumbles, yawning, but he scratches her between her shoulder blades anyway, and she purrs blissfully. 

He considers, for a long moment, simply rolling over and going back to sleep, Gigi next to him, until his alarm goes off. He supposes, though, that he should check the time, just in case he’s only got five more minutes, or something like that. 

He reaches clumsily for his alarm clock, trying to twist round and see it without disturbing Gigi. He cranes his neck, squinting to make out the glowing numbers - and his heart falls straight into the pit of his stomach. His alarm should have gone off over an hour ago. He sits up far too quickly, and Gigi scrambles and falls onto the floor, only just landing on her feet. She mewls, affronted, and stalks out of the room. 

Shit, shit, _shit_. 

Jack scrambles out of bed, pulling his clothes on haphazardly, falling sideways into the bathroom to clean his teeth. He comes very close to banging his head on the cupboard door as he grabs some bread to throw into the toaster. He grabs his things off of surfaces - wallet, phone, pass and fob - and, fuck, he must have forgotten something. He stands in the middle of the kitchen, patting his pockets and mentally listing everything he needs. 

Gigi rams his ankle with her head. Ah, of course. He grabs her food from the cupboard, and tips some into her bowl. She walks haughtily over to it and crunches on it without looking at him. 

‘I’m sorry, baby.’ He says to her, scratching her between her ears. She leans into his hand, which he takes to mean she has forgiven him. 

He dashes out of the door and all but runs towards the subway. The train is crowded and he’s pressed up way too close against way too many people. The other things he has forgotten, he realises now, are his toast and his headphones. His stomach rumbling, he is forced to listen to the clattering of the train, and to the tinny beat of the music that the guy with his elbow digging into Jack’s side is listening to. 

By the time he reaches the convention centre, he is itching with irritation, fully prepared to lash out at anything and anyone that might get in his way. He is, regretfully, also fully prepared for the reprimanding he is about to receive from Specs. They were supposed to start work on the lake in the middle of the displays today, and, without him there, the gardeners and organisers alike will be guessing what it is they are supposed to be doing. 

When he reaches the lake, it is just as bad as he had anticipated. Everything about it is the exact opposite to what he had envisioned, from the layout of the rock formations to the assortment of plants scattered around. 

‘Nice of you to show up.’ Specs says, from behind him. 

‘I’m sorry, Specs.’ Jack says, and he finds he really does mean it. ‘My alarm didn’t - ‘

Specs takes off their glasses and pinches the bridge of their nose. ‘I don’t really want to hear it, Jack. ‘You _knew_ today was important.’ 

‘I know, I know.’ Jack says. It pains him to see how frustrated and stressed he has made Specs. 

‘Look, just - ‘ Specs waves a hand ‘- get going. David’s been doing a brilliant job getting things started.’ 

Jack’s chest constricts at the mention of David’s name, bubbling with anger that he, of all people, has taken over his project. He turns around to face the lake again, and, just as Specs said, there is David, setting a fern in between a pile of rocks, and directing Race, who is hauling rocks around. David is wearing overalls again, brown ones - and, seriously, how many pairs of overalls can one person own? They make his eyes look very, very blue, and his freckles look as though they have become more prominent, which, Jack thinks, must be a result of his hours spent working in the sun. There is a small, slightly darker cluster of them on the bridge of his nose, on the left. 

And then Jack allows his attention to draw back, and he looks at the empty plastic pit, not yet filled with the water it will need to make it a lake. And he looks at the fern that Davey has just planted, and he suddenly understands the way that cartoon characters are drawn with steam coming out of their ears when they are angry. 

‘Can you really not do a single thing right?’ He snaps, gesturing at the plant. ‘It shouldn’t be there. None of this should be here.’ 

‘Maybe if you’d been here on time, you could’ve explained it.’ Davey replies nonchalantly. It drives Jack crazy that he is so calm and collected when he himself is raging with red-hot frustration. 

‘Oh, for fuck’s - just let me do it.’

‘Just explain it to me! It’s not like you know shit about plants - ‘

‘I know enough to do this better than you.’

‘This is what I’ve been hired to do. Let me do my job.’ Davey says, suddenly icy-cold, his jaw clenched. 

‘Fuck you!’

‘Whoa!’ Race steps in front of him, blocking Davey from his view. He places a hand on Jack’s shoulder, not forceful, but firm enough for him to know that Race would gladly retaliate if he pushed back. 

‘Jack, take a minute.’ Specs says, from behind him. 

‘I’m fine.’ Jack shakes off Race’s hand, looking determinedly away from everyone. 

‘You’re clearly not.’ Race says. 

‘Go and have coffee, eat, whatever. Screw your head on straight and come back later.’ Specs continues, firmly. They might not be one to get angry, but Jack knows when not to push them. 

‘Fine. Whatever.’ Jack says, and he knows he’s going to regret it later, but right now, he feels jittery, ready to strike at anything that provokes him. He turns to leave, but Race stops him again. 

‘Are you going to apologise to David?’ Race asks, coolly. Jack feels his face heat up. This is _humiliating_ , and, if it weren’t bad enough, he can see Davey smirking. He bites back a retort about how he’s glad that Davey finds this amusing.

He exhales through his nose, and turns to face Davey. ‘I’m sorry.’ He says, through gritted teeth. I’m having a bad day.’ 

‘Yeah, well. Sorry to be making it worse.’ Davey replies with a shrug. He turns on his heel and carries on with his work. Before Jack can say anything else, Race has a hand on his upper arm and is pulling him away, and towards the break room. 

*

It is immensely satisfying, not even being able to see Jack’s reaction, and Davey finds himself - though he tries not to - wondering if Jack is angry, or perhaps simply guilty. 

There is a part of him that feels immensely frustrated, consumed by the desire to make amends, to right the only thing that continues to make his time at the flower show unpleasant. However, Jack seems intent on destroying any armistice that they might have between them, and Davey isn’t sure how much longer he can deal with it. 

‘Look, I’m sorry about Jack.’ Race says to him. ‘He doesn’t mean it, really.’ 

‘Doesn’t he?’ Davey asks, tiredly. ‘I just think he doesn’t like me.’ 

‘I know it seems like that - ‘

‘ _Seems_ like that?’ Davey laughs, incredulously. ‘He can’t stand me.’

Race shrugs. ‘He’s jealous. Or something.’ 

‘I don’t know why.’ Davey says, frowning. ‘I’m no good at what he’s good at. The art and the design and stuff.’ 

‘He’s a weird guy, I know.’ Race says. ‘Don’t take it personally.’ 

Davey doesn’t reply to that, mostly because he doesn’t particularly want to get into this discussion with Jack’s brother. As much as he really does think he and Race are good friends, he’s not quite sure that his loyalties would stretch so far as to entertain the length of Davey’s hatred of Jack. 

Even thinking that, _hate_ feels like a harsh word. If he’s being truly honest, the last few days have been tiring in that he’s spent them in a constant cycle of _Jack_. 

Does he hate him? Does he actually just want to be his friend? Does he want to initiate a reconciliation? Never mind, Jack definitely hates him - and the cycle is started once again. 

Very notably absent in the cycle - though he tries his hardest to keep it that way - is the fact that he keeps _noticing_ these things about Jack. The way his eyebrows furrow when he’s drawing, forming gentle creases on his forehead. His dimples when he smiles. The rosy patches on his cheeks that never seem to go away, but that spread when he’s embarrassed, or angry. The way his eyes flick up and down Davey, as though he is sizing him up, every time he sees him. His dark eyes, quiet and searching, that only ever seem to be directed at Davey in anger. 

He doesn’t dare admit any of this - not even to Sarah. She would simply laugh, and tell him that she had been right all along, and he doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction. He could tell Spot, he supposes, but his advice always seems to end in fighting the person you are complaining about, and Davey feels like that isn’t quite the solution to this problem. Albert, of course, would be his main port of call, but there happens to be the slight difficulty that they are dating Jack’s brother. Davey can’t quite think of a way round that one. 

So he keeps all of these observations to himself, locking them away until the week is out and he can forget all about him. 

The problem is - and Davey hates himself for thinking it, can’t stand the way that his mind won’t stop turning things over - the real problem is, that the more he pushes these thoughts away, the more they fester and grow, and suddenly he finds himself with a running commentary on his every interaction with Jack. 

His brow furrows, and Davey wants to smooth away his frown with a sweep of his fingertips. He is drawing, and Davey wants to see it, wants to listen to him explain the meaning behind every stroke of the pencil. Jack smiles, and Davey is frustrated that he can never seem to be the cause of that smile. His dimples appear, and Davey wants to tease him about them. He blushes, and Davey wants to press his mouth to the rosy patch, high on his cheekbones, and trace the line of his blush across his face, down his jawline (and, oh boy, does that jawline have an entire locked box of thoughts pertaining to it that Davey doesn’t even dare open). Jack’s eyes flash with anger, and Davey wishes desperately to resolve it, to see them light up with some other emotion, anything that isn’t frustration. 

He can’t fucking _stand_ Jack. 

He counts the days on his fingers. Race looks at him funny from where he is rearranging a rock formation. 

Four more days, and he can forget about this. Forget about _him._ That’s what he wants. Isn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writers block is Not It right now but if u want to help me kick start it i would welcome prompts on tumblr @weisenbachfelded  
> comments are good too! i’m like some kinda succubus i feed on them  
> love to u all! things are . stressful right now so i hope u can get as much joy from this as i get from writing it


	7. thursday (pm)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is physically painful to write sometimes they are so fucking stupid  
> in the wise words of penzy -  
> jack: one time i found a guy so hot i left him a note in his overalls pocket that just said ‘get out of my flower show’  
> aka the whole vibe for this fic

Jack doesn’t show up for lunch. 

Davey spends most of it looking at the empty chair he usually occupies out of the corner of his eye, and trying desperately to look as if he is not. Crutchie catches him out, though, nudging him with their elbow. 

‘Trust me, it’s a good thing he’s not here.’ They say, around a mouthful of sandwich. ‘It means he’ll cool down before this afternoon.’ 

Davey nods, but doesn’t reply. He doesn’t really want to admit that he’d been watching Jack’s empty seat, nor that Crutchie doesn’t quite understand just _why_ he’s paying so much attention to his absence. 

He wants to tell himself he doesn’t understand it either, but there is a hollow feeling in his stomach, rather like dread, that tells him he understands it far more than he’s letting on. It makes him feel childish, stupid - reminding him of the way that they tell girls in kindergarten _boys are mean to you because they like you_. Which is a load of bullshit, he knows, but he feels like he’s fallen straight into that trap. 

Davey is jolted out of his daydream when a piece of bread crust hits his ear. He jumps, to see Race grimacing apologetically. 

‘Sorry, Dave, I was aiming for - ow!’ 

A blueberry hurtles across the table and hits Racetrack squarely in the forehead. Romeo is laughing from the other end of the table, a handful of blueberries ready for firing. Davey throws the bread crust back at Race. 

‘You’re gross.’ He says, and honest-to-god _giggles_. 

*

Sarah phones him at four-thirty, half an hour before he’s supposed to pack up. They’ve just filled up the lake, and he is balancing water lilies on the surface, when Race waves his phone and shouts that his sister is calling him. 

‘Oh, for - give me a second!’ He yells over his shoulder. He has a sinking feeling that he knows what this is about. He’s supposed to be seeing her tonight - he’s going to see her show and then they’ll get dinner afterwards. He’s been looking forward to it for weeks. 

Davey lets go of a lily flower and watches it drift across the surface of the lake, with a little bubble of satisfaction settling in his chest. He turns and takes the phone from Race, already resigned to what Sarah is going to tell him. 

‘Hey, Saz.’ He says. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Hey, Dave.’ She replies. ‘I, uh - I’m really sorry, but I’m gonna have to cancel tonight. Kath’s got a thing and I really need to go with her and - ‘

‘It’s okay, Saz.’ He sighs, and he really does mean it. She doesn’t need to explain what it is; he trusts that she would only do this if Katherine really did need her. ‘I get it. Send her my love.’

‘I‘ll make it up to you, I promise.’ She says. 

‘It’s okay.’ He repeats. ‘See you this weekend still?’ 

‘Yeah, of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ 

She had said that about tonight, as well, but he lets it slide. 

‘Okay then. Speak later.’

‘I love you, Dave.’ 

‘Love you too. Bye.’ He hangs up before she can draw the conversation out much longer. He’s frustrated - but more at himself than he is at her. It feels awfully selfish of him to want to take her away from Katherine, but at the same time, it aches to know that Kath is her priority. 

‘You okay?’ Jack asks. Davey looks up, and he’s standing nearby, frowning worriedly. Davey wants to scream with the unfairness of it all. 

‘What do you care?’ He sneers, and goes back to his water lilies. 

At five o’clock, the others pack up, and head home. He makes his excuses, and goes to check on his rosebushes. He knows there’s not much he can do with them, now, so close to the show, but it settles the frantic racing of his mind to be near them, to bury himself in the task of caring for them. 

*

Jack loves being at the convention centre when they’re locking up. 

He loves the noise the lights make when they turn off, echoing, metallic clanging that makes him feel like he’s stood centre stage. 

‘Make sure you sign out, Jack.’

He turns, to see Specs behind him, writing their name on the clipboard they all have to sign in and out on. 

‘Okay, mom.’ He says, rolling his eyes, but he goes to sign his name, too. 

‘You were an asshole today.’ Specs says, nonchalantly. Jack knows them well enough to tell that they’re not going to elaborate. 

‘I know.’ He says. ‘I’m really sorry. It won’t be like that tomorrow, I promise.’ 

‘Thank you.’ Specs puts a hand on his shoulder, and squeezes gently. ‘You’re better than you give yourself credit for.’ 

‘I - thanks.’ Jack feels himself exhale, releasing a tension he hadn’t realised he’d been carrying with him. And, just like that, the conversation is over. It’s almost laughable, how quickly Specs can move on, forgive and forget with no resentment. Jack envies them, at times. 

‘Did you see David sign out?’ Specs says, frowning down at the clipboard. ‘His name’s not here.’ 

‘I - no, I don’t think so.’ 

(That’s a lie. Jack knows that Davey hasn’t signed out, yet, because he’s been watching the exit out of the corner of his eye all evening, just for the chance to catch a glimpse of him leaving in those stupid brown overalls.)

‘It’s not like him to forget. Do you think he’s working late?’ Specs asks. 

‘Yeah, maybe. I can go look for him?’ Jack offers. 

‘Do you think that’s the best idea?’ Specs says, but they’re checking the time on their phone as they do. 

‘It’s fine. Go, do whatever you gotta do.’ Jack shoos them off. 

‘Thanks, Jack. It’s date night, Romeo’s waiting.’ They say, apologetically. 

‘Have fun. Be safe.’ Jack teases. 

‘Hilarious, Jack.’ Specs rolls their eyes. ‘Play nice with Davey! Be safe!’

‘Hilarious.’ Jack mutters, but they’re already out of earshot. 

He already knows where David is - there’s only one place he would go to spend this much time. As he walks the path to the outdoor gardens, Jack wonders, in the very depths of his mind, if David goes there because Jack doesn’t. 

Oddly predictably, his mind goes blank the moment he sees Davey, bent over the rosebushes, a trowel in his hand, a pencil tucked behind one ear. A curl of his hair has fallen into his face, and Jack watches as he tries, in vain, to blow it out of the way. 

‘They’re locking up.’ Jack says. He tries to ignore the way Davey’s lids flicker shut for a moment, as though he is rolling his eyes at the mere sound of Jack’s voice. 

‘I know that.’ David says, coldly. He doesn’t look up from his work. 

‘Okay, okay. I was just makin’ sure you got out in time.’ Jack says, immediately springing to his own. 

‘I don’t need you to baby me. I know you don’t trust me not to ruin your show, but I can at least not get myself locked in.’ 

Jack blinks. Davey has a point, he doesn’t trust him - but that doesn’t stop the ice in his voice from hurting him, just a little. 

‘I never said that.’ Jack retorts. 

‘You may as well have.’ David sits back on his knees, and tugs off his gardening gloves. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. Jack swallows. He can feel his heart rate quickening, and his face flushing. 

‘Well. I didn’t mean it.’ It’s not quite an apology, but it’s as far as Jack is willing to go - at least, for now. David doesn’t reply. ‘You getting the subway home?’ Jack tries, trying not to sound too hopeful. 

‘No, I’m driving.’ Davey says. ‘Wait - are you taking the subway? This late?’ 

‘Yeah. I usually get a lift from Race, but it’s date night.’ 

‘Oh.’ Davey says. He stays silent as he packs up his tools into a little green bag. 

‘Well, I’ll see you around, Davey.’ Jack says, and waves awkwardly, and turns to leave. 

‘Hold on - ‘ 

Jack wheels back around to face Davey at an alarmingly embarrassing speed. 

‘Yeah?’ 

‘Do you - ‘ Davey sighs. ‘D’you want a lift home?’ 

Jack isn’t quite sure how to respond. He has the vague impression that his mouth is opening and closing like a goldfish. 

‘Yeah.’ He manages, finally. ‘Sure. If that’s okay.’

‘Okay.’ Davey has an odd expression on his face, and he won’t quite meet Jack’s eyes. 

*

Davey wonders, as they sit in his little van, the radio on very quietly, why he offered to do this. 

He can’t even use the excuse that it had seemed like a good idea at the time, because it most definitely hadn’t. Even now, as he sits inches from Jack, his body is screaming out at him that there is no way this can end well - his heart thudding against his chest, an uncomfortable knot squirming in the pit of his stomach. 

‘You said yesterday that you know flower language.’ Jack blurts out. Davey looks over at him, sideways. The rosy patches on his cheeks are bright pink, and Davey has to bite back a smile. He had hardly remembered mentioning that himself, and he wonders what it was that made Jack remember that particular piece of information. 

‘Yeah, a bit. I worked as a florist for a while, and we still sell flowers at the garden centre. People come in all the time asking for flowers with meanings.’ Davey replies. 

‘Oh yeah? Like what?’ 

‘Proposals. Condolences. Graduations. People like having... y’know. Personalised messages in bouquets.’ 

‘Ever sold a really weird one?’ Jack asks, with a half smile, that sort of shows his dimples. Davey thinks he feels his heart stutter and grind to a brief halt. 

‘Well - at the florist I worked at, we got so many people asking for it that we had a special _I’m Cheating On You _bouquet.’__

__‘No way.’_ _

__‘Yep.’_ _

__‘What was in it?’_ _

__‘Gardenia, _secret love_. Marigold, for _grief_. Yellow rose, _infidelity._ And usually a purple hyacinth, _I’m sorry, please forgive me._ ’_ _

__‘Oh, my god.’ Jack laughs incredulously, almost in shock, his entire being lighting up as he does. ‘That’s kind of amazing?’_ _

__‘It was a lovely bouquet.’ Davey laughs, too, at the memory. ‘Down here?’_ _

__‘Yeah, turn left at the lights.’_ _

__Davey does so, and Jack directs him to his apartment block. When they pull up, they both wait for a moment, neither of them quite sure what they’re supposed to say._ _

__‘Thanks for the ride.’ Jack says, and his voice is all quiet and strange. Davey’s brain suddenly feels very fuzzy, like static on the TV, everything not quite in focus._ _

__‘Any time.’ He says, and immediately wants to slap himself. He certainly does not want this to become a regular thing. Jack looks at him, a funny look in his eyes - questioning? Or, more likely, he probably just thinks Davey is even more fucking weird and annoying than he already did._ _

__Finally, Jack just nods, and gets out of the car. There is a cat sitting on the front steps of his apartment, with ginger-brown fur, and a little white patch on her chin._ _

__‘Hey!’ Jack cries, when he sees her. ‘How did you get out here?’ He bends down and scratches her between her ears, and she nuzzles her face contentedly into the palm of his hand._ _

__Davey‘s mouth falls open a little. ‘You have a cat?’_ _

__‘Oh. Yeah.’ Jack says, looking around at him, with that same half-smile on his face. Davey can’t work out what it is about that smile that makes him feel like this. He thinks, perhaps, that it is the fact that he is so used to seeing Jack’s mouth twisted into a self-satisfied smirk, or an ugly snarl. ‘You can come say hi, if you want.’ Jack continues._ _

__‘Really?’ Davey asks, all wide-eyed. Jack nods. Davey gets out of the van and crouches next to Gigi, smiling like crazy._ _

__‘What’s her name?’ He asks._ _

__‘Gigi.’ Jack tells him._ _

__‘Gigi. That’s cute.’ Davey scratches her behind her ears, the way that Jack had done, and she closes her eyes, purring in deep contentment. ‘Is it short for anything?’_ _

__‘Uh - ‘ Jack feels himself blush. He really, really doesn’t want to admit this. ‘It’s kind of embarrassing.’_ _

__‘Oh, you _have_ to tell me.’ _ _

__‘Most people don’t know. She’s just Gigi.’_ _

__‘I don’t care. Tell me.’ Davey presses._ _

__Jack sighs. ‘It’s short for Caravaggio.’_ _

__Davey bursts out laughing. ‘You named your cat after - ‘_ _

__‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’ Jack grumbles. ‘I was an art student. I thought it was cool.’ He smiles despite himself, drinking in Davey’s laugh. He is suddenly very aware that this is the first time he has really made Davey laugh, that he has borne witness to his smile and been the sole cause of it. He wants to drown in the feeling of it, cover himself in it and let himself sink down until he is surrounded by the sound of Davey’s laugh._ _

__‘Hey, baby Caravaggio.’ Davey says, cradling Gigi’s face in his hands. She all but beams up at him. Davey looks up at him, and looks a little startled to find him already staring. It is suddenly impossible for him to look away, as though he is enraptured by the sheer blue-ness of Davey’s eyes, by the way they crinkle at the corners with his smile. And then he’s thinking about Davey’s smile again, and he permits his gaze to fall, ever so slightly, for the tiniest fraction of a second, to Davey’s mouth._ _

__And then Davey looks away, and clears his throat._ _

__‘I should get going.’ He says, standing up._ _

__‘Yeah, yeah.’ Jack says._ _

__‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Davey is fidgeting with his hands, as if he’s not quite sure what to do with them or where to rest them._ _

__‘Yeah. Tomorrow.’ Jack breathes, still incapable of stringing words together. ‘Thanks again for the ride, Davey.’_ _

__‘No problem, Jackie.’ Davey nods, a little too vigorously, but with a gleam in his eye as he watches Jack’s breath hitch when he uses that dumb nickname. Jack watches as he gets back in the van and drives off, with an awkward wave of his hand. He wants the night to swallow him whole, and thinks, absently, that if he fell backwards (and all it would take, right now, would be a breath of wind) the night air might catch him in its arms._ _

__Gigi mewls at him, and butts his ankle with her head._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things get goooood from here on! this is all the stuff im super excited to write so leave comments and stuff! there’s also a new post for each chapter on my tumblr @weisenbachfelded so give it a rb!


	8. friday (am)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am saying Nothing

On Friday morning, the entire centre is buzzing with excitement. Everything they have worked on is mere inches from completion, and Davey can’t stop smiling, looking at everything he and his friends have built. 

The first few reporters arrive, those who have priority access a day before the show opens to the public, who write for big magazines publishing proper editorials for them. There are people with cameras and big boom mics. It is all at once intimidating and utterly thrilling. Specs is directing them around, pairing them up with gardeners to tour them around, and to give interviews. 

‘David?’ 

Davey wheels around, to see Katherine standing behind him, beaming. 

‘Kath!’ He says, breaking into a smile. ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming!’

‘I didn’t know you were here!’ She replies, hugging him tightly. She’s holding a notebook, and has pencils holding up her hair in a scruffy bun. 

‘It was all kind of... last minute.’ He shrugs. 

‘Have you met everyone?’ She asks. ‘Race and Specs and that lot?’ 

‘Yeah, yeah. They’re all fantastic.’

‘Aren’t they?’ She grins back at him. 

‘Hey, Kath!’ Jack calls from across the hall. She waves back at him. 

‘Oh, you know Jack?’ Davey says, trying desperately not to sound like he cares in the slightest. 

‘Yeah, we’ve been friends since high school.’ She says. 

‘Oh.’ Davey nods. 

‘What?’ She asks, narrowing her eyes. God, he hates that she’s a reporter. She can read a person like a freaking book. ‘What am I missing?’

‘Nothing, nothing.’ He says, hurriedly. ‘I just - Jack doesn’t, uh, like me all that much.’

‘Hold on.’ Katherine says slowly, like all the cogs in her brain are ticking and whirring, making connections at a million miles a minute. Then, her mouth falls open, and she says, in utter disbelief, ‘ _you’re_ the hot gardener guy?’

Davey splutters. ‘I’m the _what now_?’ 

‘That - that actually makes a lot of sense.’ She bites her lip, frowning thoughtfully, and nodding. 

‘Hold, on, can you - ‘

‘Specs said you wanted me to tour you round?’ Jack says, and suddenly he’s stood right next to them. ‘Hi, Davey.’ 

Davey isn’t quite sure he’s going to get the words out. His throat feels like sandpaper, and he can’t stop staring at Jack, stood there, half-smiling at him, in a soft blue shirt that is unbuttoned at the top. 

‘Hi, Jackie.’ He says, eventually, and thanks the stars that his voice sounds even and nonchalant, even a little smug. Perfect. 

Katherine laughs, looking incredulous. ‘Yeah, I did. Shall we get going?’ 

‘Sounds good to me.’ Jack grins at Katherine, and nods at Davey. 

‘See you around, Dave!’ She says, and they head off together, Katherine leaning in to whisper something to Jack. 

Head reeling with questions, Davey tries to make sense of everything that he has just discovered in the space of about a minute. Katherine knows Specs and Race and everyone. Okay. Katherine knows Jack. Maybe that’s not so okay. Jack has probably met Sarah. That’s - well, he’s not quite sure how that makes him feel. 

Katherine, for some reason, knows him as the _hot gardener guy_. And her making that connection had been triggered by his telling her that he and Jack don’t get on. 

He definitely isn’t sure how that makes him feel. 

If anything, it fills him with relief that he’s never referred to Jack as anything other than _this annoying guy I work with_ , or some variation on it. Well. Not out loud, at least. 

*

Davey spends the morning beside Crutchie, putting the finishing touches to the lake. Beneath the lights, the surface sparkles and glimmers, and, when Romeo passes by, his eyes fill with tears at the sight of his vision made reality, even in a state of incompletion. 

He sees Jack pass back and forth a few times, looking steadily more vexed as he does. Kath no longer at his side, his easy smile of the morning has disappeared, to be replaced by furrowed eyebrows and worry in his eyes. On several occasions, he has a phone pressed against his ear, and he is speaking in a low, frustrated voice that, somehow, makes Davey’s chest feel like a tangled ball of yarn. On others, he has his nose buried in that blue notebook of his, the stub of a pencil between his fingers, scribbling frantically, or else looking up at his surroundings, as if comparing them with his pencil scrawls. 

Once, he looks over at Davey. Or, Davey supposes, he could be looking at Crutchie, but, following his conversation with Katherine this morning, he finds it unlikely that Crutchie would cause Jack to scowl, blush bright red, and storm off in the opposite direction. He heaves a heavy sigh, resigning himself back to square one with Jack. Perhaps last night really had just been them tolerating each other. He most certainly, definitely _absolutely_ doesn’t know how that makes him feel. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to admit it. Isn’t that the same thing, though?

*

‘I think we’re done.’ Crutchie says, as Davey fishes out a stray flower blossom from the water, no doubt fallen in when someone was passing, carrying a crate of blooms. 

‘I think we are.’ Davey says, with a laugh. He stares at his handiwork with nothing less than incredulity - that he has created this six-by-six feet of paradise from a tarpaulin-lined hole in the ground feels as close to what he imagines magic is as is possible. When he looks at Crutchie, he can see the same sparkle in their eyes, the same satisfaction and pride mirrored in their face. 

‘What time is it?’ He asks Crutchie. 

‘Uh - ‘ Crutchie checks their watch. ‘Half eleven.’ 

‘Okay.’ Davey nods. ‘We have loads of time. Cup of tea before we finish the tunnel?’ 

‘Dave, you’re brilliant.’ Crutchie grins. ‘Meet you over there in ten?’ 

‘Absolutely.’ Davey says, and takes one last look at the lake, wishing he could breathe it in and store it in a pocket in his chest for as long as possible. For now, he soaks in the memory, of the water shimmering, the flowers gliding across like skaters, and of Crutchie, at the side, suppressing a smile as they stare, just as awestruck as Davey, at the water. 

He makes his way to the break room weaving in and out of reporters. About five different people ask him if he has a spare moment later on, and he worries, a little irrationally, that he won’t remember all of them. 

He is still half-engaged in a conversation with Finch when he reaches the break room, and moves to open the door with his shoulder. 

He doesn’t expect the door to be open already. He certainly doesn’t expect Jack to be on the other side, a mug of coffee in his hand. 

They crash into each other, the coffee sloshing over the edge of the mug and all over Davey’s shirt. 

‘Fuck!’ Jack yells, as Davey cries out in pain at being burned by the hot coffee. 

‘What the hell?’ Davey says, staring down at the stain on his shirt. 

‘Watch where you’re fuckin’ going!’ Jack slams the mug down on the table, sending the last of the coffee splashing onto the tabletop.

Davey stares down at the dark brown stain on his shirt. He feels his chest constrict, and suddenly, he’s tired of it, he’s sick of this game they’ve been playing, neither of them quite sure where they stand, and him, always desperate for some kind of reconciliation from someone who doesn’t care. 

‘Do you get off on making my life hell or something?’ He says, and he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed at the tremor in his voice. 

‘What, like I spilled my coffee on you on purpose?’ Jack scoffs. ‘Maybe if you weren’t such a stuck up - ‘

‘Oh, really?That’s where you want to go?’ Davey is raring to go, now, a part of him immensely pleased that Jack has bitten and is fighting back with such ferocity. ‘You’ve hated me from the moment I walked in here and I’m fucking sick of it!’

‘What? Like you didn’t walk in here acting like you own the damn place? And taking out your superiority complex on me - ‘

‘Maybe if you didn’t treat me like I’m the dirt on the bottom of your shoe then - ‘

‘Maybe if you weren’t so shit at what you do - ‘

‘You just can’t help it, can you?’ Davey snarls. ‘You can’t stand the fact that there’s someone better at your job than you.’

‘You are so self-centred!’ Jack almost laughs, throwing his hands in the air. 

‘That’s pretty rich coming from you.‘

‘Fuck, I wish you would just - ‘

‘Wish I would what, Jack? Finish the fucking - ‘

Jack surges forwards and press his mouth to Davey’s. 

Too shocked to kiss back, Davey just stands there, arms at his sides. 

Jack pulls away quickly, and they stare at each other, both still seething with anger, breathing heavily. Davey suddenly understands why people get into physical fights, understands the urge to punch someone into shutting up. He half-expects Jack to do the same, to shove him to the ground or at least give him a black eye. 

When Davey still does nothing, Jack sighs and tries to walk past him towards the door. Davey springs into action, grabbing hold of the front of his shirt. He uses his grip on Jack’s shirt to push him backwards and up against the wall - and he knows he’s strong enough to do it, but it is easier than he is expecting, almost as if Jack isn’t resisting at all. 

He almost doesn’t know what he is planning to do, the options clear in his mind but racing through too fast for him to comprehend. His stomach is churning, a muddle of emotions, all tangled and knotted and impossible for him to decipher. 

They stare at each other for a moment, Davey minutely attuned to the rise and fall of Jack’s chest, to the thudding of his heart, loud and fast and heavy enough for Davey to feel it even through both their ribcages. It feels as though Davey’s chest is filled up with fire, raging with anger and a deep desire that he doesn’t want to think about. 

And then Jack raises one eyebrow, and half-smirks, and his dimple pops out in his cheek. 

And that desire that he didn’t want to think about is suddenly at the forefront of his mind, screaming - still not being thought of, but rather controlling his every action. 

Davey kisses him. 

It is bruising, aching, hungry, and full of craving, and _fuck_ , it feels a thousand times better than punching him could have. It feels like he’s giving in. 

Jack moans into his mouth, and his entire body goes slack, as though he is only being held up by Davey’s body pinning him against the wall. Davey’s hand is still twisted in the fabric of his shirt, his other hand having made its way to Jack’s waist, where it is holding him firmly in place. 

The kiss is messy, and electric with the heat of their anger. Davey can feel it fizzling through him, trickling down his spine and through his veins. Jack’s mouth is intoxicating, and Davey is suddenly desperate to know it, to understand it, to memorise every move it makes, every curve and swoop of his lips. He runs his teeth over Jack’s bottom lip, ever so gently, and he feels Jack’s knees give out, as his hands cling desperately to the back of Davey’s shirt. 

Davey smirks against his mouth at that, which provokes retaliation from Jack, who suddenly returns his kisses with such ferocity that it is almost terrifying. Jack’s hand snakes its way into Davey’s hair, holding on just a little too tight. Jack’s other hand is running over Davey’s shoulders, his upper arms, almost in admiration, as though he can’t decide where he wants to rest on, as though he wants to touch as much of him as he possibly can, as though he knows that he only has a finite amount of time to do so. 

There is a part of Davey that wants to break away, to ask Jack what he wants, ask him what it is that he’s admiring. There is a part of Davey that wants to press his mouth to every inch of Jack’s skin, to tell him all that he wants to admire of him. And there is a part of Davey that wants to sink to his knees there and then, with Jack’s hands still tangled in his hair. It is this thought that snaps him back to reality, and he pulls quickly away from Jack. 

He bites back a grin at the way Jack stumbles, suddenly lost for support. Jack’s mouth is still slightly parted, his lips red and swollen from kisses. Davey wants desperately to trace the curve of those lips with a fingertip, to press more kisses to them. 

He doesn’t, though. He just stands there, as a cold nausea runs through him. He is very suddenly aware of the coffee stain on the front of his shirt, and he remembers, as if like new, why he is angry. 

‘What the fuck am I supposed to do about this?’ He says, gesturing down at himself. 

Jack shrugs. He looks a little dazed. ‘Don’t you have a spare?’ 

‘No! This is my nice shirt! The reporters are here today, and - ‘

‘Borrow something of Race’s.’ 

‘You’re fucking with me, right? Race doesn’t own anything I could wear to speak to a - ‘

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Jack interrupts. He pauses, briefly, as though he is very close to doing something he knows he’s going to regret. ‘Just take my shirt.’ Jack says, and he begins to unbutton it.

‘Hey, you can’t just -‘

‘Oh, calm down, I’m wearin’ a top underneath.’ Jack rolls his eyes. 

Davey opens his mouth to respond, but, once Jack reaches the third button, realises it’s a lost case. Heart thudding, he grits his teeth, and he sets about making his and Crutchie’s cups of tea. He tries intently not to be too obvious that he is watching Jack unbutton his shirt out of the corner of his eye. He almost misses the mug, splashing milk onto his hand, when he realises that Jack is wearing the same striped tank top and suspenders as he had been wearing the first time they met. He screws the cap on the milk the wrong way, distracted by the fact that some-fucking-how, Jack looks even more attractive now than he had on that first day, even though he was in the same goddamn outfit. 

‘Here.’ Jack holds out the shirt. Davey sighs, deeply, and takes it. 

He briefly considers leaving to change, but feels as though that might involve a lot more explaining than he is willing to do. He turns to face away from Jack, and quickly unbuttons his own shirt. He can’t stop thinking about how Jack is _right there_ , how he can feel his gaze burning into his back. God, he fucking wishes he’d worn an undershirt today. 

Jack’s shirt is just as soft as it looks, and it fits him wrong - too tight around the shoulders, too loose around the chest, and too long in the arms. It smells unfamiliar, a lingering scent that Davey only recognises from having Jack pressed up against him mere moments before. It is a little earthy, and a little like the bitter smell of charcoal, but above all, is _Jack_. Davey isn’t quite sure what he’s going to do with himself, now that he knows what that smell is. Davey runs his fingers over where the shirt is wrinkled a little in the centre, where he had been gripping it earlier. 

Davey turns around again to see Jack staring, although, when he meets his eyes, he does at least have the dignity to pretend not to have been. 

‘Why are you even still here?’ He snaps. 

‘It’s the break room! I can be here if i want to!’ Jack argues, and Davey can tell he’s just doing it to be stubborn. 

‘You only want to be here to piss me off.’

‘God, you are so fucking annoying!’ 

‘Speak for yourself.’ Davey spits, and rolls up the sleeves on the shirt. He looks back up to see Jack’s eyes raking over him, hardly even trying to be subtle. 

‘Look, don’t take this the wrong way -‘ Jack starts. 

‘Whatever you’re gonna say, don’t say it.’ 

‘You look really, really hot right now.’ 

‘Fuck you.’ Davey snarls. 

‘Kiss me again?’ Jack says, without a moment’s hesitation. He sounds as though he’s almost pleading. 

Davey stares at him in disbelief. He almost concedes, desperate to pin him against the wall again, to trail his mouth along Jack’s sharp jawline, to leave a path of bruises down beneath the collar of that fucking striped top. He walks towards Jack, and watches at his breath catches in his throat. 

Davey takes the two mugs of tea off the counter, turns around, and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👀


	9. friday (pm)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with every chapter i write i love this fic more and more i just. i love this au and i love these dumbasses

Jack slumps back against the wall and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. His head is reeling, his heart pounding with a mixture of exhilaration and sheer nerves, adrenaline still coursing through him. 

He can still feel every spot that Davey had touched him - the imprint of his fingertips, firm and solid on his waist, the gentle, insistent press of his shoulders against his own, the spot where his nose had bumped against his cheek a little when they had first kissed. 

He leans his head back until it rests against the wall behind him. He feels a little sick, awash with uncertainty and his head swimming with feelings he can’t seem to separate from each other. Without even thinking, he runs a hand over his lips, tracing the spot where Davey’s mouth had been. The very memory of it makes him ache to feel it again, desperate to hold him once more. 

Breathing in and out through his nose, he sets about making himself a new cup of coffee. It’s instant coffee, because, for some reason, that’s what Specs insists on, saying it’s quicker and easier than anything else. Jack must admit, they have a point, even if it does taste terrible. 

He boils the kettle, and thinks of Davey. 

He spoons out coffee, and thinks of Davey’s hands on his hips, on his waist, of that lingering possessiveness in his every touch. 

He pours boiling water into the mug, and thinks of Davey’s breath against his lips, mere millimetres away, taunting him. 

He stirs in the milk, and thinks about Davey’s fist curled into his shirt, the tips of his fingers digging into his chest, just a little, thinks about his body pinning him against the wall, thinks about how easy it had felt to fit their forms together. 

He thinks about how Davey is out there, right now, wearing that shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the top buttons undone, the fabric still creased in the centre. 

He pours three packets of sugar into his mug of coffee, and leaves the break room. 

*

The walk back to find Crutchie isn’t nearly as long enough as Davey needs it to be. He has a thousand thoughts he’s desperate to filter through, and yet, he finds himself shoving them aggressively to the back of his mind. 

Crutchie holds their hands out for their mug of tea when they see him, and they immediately take a long sip. 

‘Dave, you’re amazing. Thanks.’ They say, holding the mug to their chest. 

‘No problem.’ Davey says, tentatively sipping his own tea. 

Crutchie frowns, suddenly, and points at Davey’s shirt. ‘Isn’t that - ?’

‘Spilled something on my shirt. I don’t want to talk about it.’ Davey says, bluntly. Crutchie raises their eyebrows, but nods, and doesn’t say anything else. 

*

Specs gathers them for photographs later in the afternoon, running around like crazy trying to ensure everyone’s photos are in the right places. Jack is behind the camera as well, directing the shots and speaking in low voices with the photographers. 

They take a big group photo near the entrance, all crowded together in rows. They make Davey stand at the back, seeing as he’s pretty tall, which he’s not too displeased about, seeing as it mostly lets him hide from the camera. It does not, however, hide his shirt from many of his colleagues. He gets raised eyebrows, frowns, and more cryptic comments than he can count. A part of him wishes he’d kept the coffee-stained shirt. 

Jack, reluctant to be in any of the photographs, drags out the organisation a little too long, evidently hoping they will forget about him. Racetrack, stood at Davey’s side, doesn’t let him. 

‘Come on, Jack!’ He calls. ‘You gotta be in one!’ The others clamour for him to join them. 

‘I - okay.’ Jack holds his hands up in defeat. 

‘Come stand here.’ Race points, right in front of Davey, a smug grin on his face. 

Davey closes his eyes and breathes deeply. 

Jack rolls his eyes, and comes to stand in front of Davey, just to the side.

They make momentary eye contact, and Davey watches, breath caught in his throat, as Jack’s gaze drops to his mouth, and trails down, drinking in the sight of him in his shirt. 

All too soon, he turns around to face the camera, so that the front of Davey’s shoulder is inches away from the back of Jack’s. 

‘Smile!’ The photographer calls, and they do. The bulb flashes, and, with everyone’s attention facing forwards, Davey feels Jack’s fingertips, reaching backwards, and searching for his hand. He runs his fingers, ever so lightly, over Davey’s knuckles, and Davey has to keep from gasping. A shiver rolls up his arm and down his spine, that same electric spark that he had felt with Jack’s mouth on his. 

Just as quickly as they had appeared, Jack’s fingers retract, and suddenly, everyone is talking, and Jack is laughing at something Finch said, leaving Davey blinking, utterly dazed. 

‘We’re going to do some interviews.’ Specs announces, dragging Davey back to the present. ‘I’ll pair a few of you off with reporters.’ 

Specs turns and speaks quietly to Katherine, then addresses the group again. 

‘David, can we get you outside?’ They say. 

Davey can only nod, as he manoeuvres his way out of the group. 

‘Jack, will you go and make sure the photo looks good?’ 

‘There’s really no need - ‘ Jack starts, at the same time as Davey exclaims ‘ _photo?_ ’. 

‘Come on, you two.’ Katherine rolls her eyes, and Davey has little choice but to follow her and the photographer outside to his rosebushes. Davey makes sure to stay a few steps ahead of Jack, suddenly terrified of what might happen if he so much as looks at him. 

‘Should we have him in front of the flowerbed?’ Katherine asks. 

‘Yeah. Sounds good.’ Jack says. Davey does as he is told, standing in front of the flowerbed. They give him a spade to lean on, which feels a little awkward, but which Katherine and the photographer reassure him looks natural. Jack doesn’t say anything, just stands behind the camera and stares. Davey feels a little warm beneath his collar. He feels a lock of hair fall into his face, and begins to lift a hand to move it out of the way.

‘Hang on! Don’t move, we’ll lose your lighting.’ The photographer exclaims. ‘Could you just - ’

‘Yeah, sure.’ Jack says, and moves forwards. 

It feels as if everything has gone into slow-motion, yet at the same time Davey has no opportunity to collect himself before Jack is right in front of him. 

Now that he knows exactly why, he can’t tear his mind away from the thudding of his heart and the tightening sensation in his chest. 

He notices Jack’s breath has stopped, and his cheeks are flushed even more than usual. Biting his lip to keep from smirking, he allows himself one sweeping look at Jack, at his stupid striped tank top and suspenders, at the graphite marks on his fingers, at the spot on his bottom lip that Davey knows, now, if he kisses in just the right way, will drive him crazy. 

Jack reaches up and brushes the stray curl of hair away, tucking it behind his ear with gentle fingers. 

And then, all too soon, he is standing back with Kath and the photographer, and the bulb of the camera is flashing, and Kath is telling him the photos look great, and Jack is leaving with the photographer, and Davey is left, staring at his rapidly retreating back, and the way his suspenders curve over the muscle in his shoulders. 

‘Nice shirt.’ Kath says, and he snaps his gaze away from Jack to glare at her. 

‘I spilled coffee on mine.’ He replies, a little stupidly. 

‘So I’ve heard.’ She raises her eyebrows, and goes about opening her notebook and taking a pencil from her bun. ‘Let’s get to it?’ 

‘Yeah, sure.’ He hates how nervous he sounds. They sit on the paved floor, cross-legged, and it feels comfortingly familiar. 

‘I’m going to record you, but it’s just for things I don’t get down. I’ll delete it afterwards.’ She says, in a tone of voice that indicates she’s rattling off a practiced speech. She taps her phone a few times, then sets it down between them, the microphone facing him, and picks up her notepad. ‘David Jacobs, gardener. Friday, June fifth, three-fifteen in the afternoon.’ She says, to the phone. ‘Okay, Dave. How did you start gardening?’ 

He recounts the story he’s told a million times, minus a few personal details, and with a few embellishments here and there to make it a little more interesting. Katherine interjects a few times, to clarify, or to ask a question, but mostly, she just listens, even though he knows she already knows this story. 

‘What’s been your favourite thing about the show so far?’ She asks, once he’s finished. 

‘The people.’ He answers, immediately. ‘There are so many people who just love what they do, who love what _I_ love. I think it shows, in everything we’ve made.’ He motions around him. 

‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Kath says, scribbling in her notepad. ‘Finally, what’s your favourite thing you’ve done here?’ 

He pauses for a moment, not quite sure. 

‘The tunnel of flowers.’ He says, eventually. ‘It was frustrating to work on, but in the end, it felt like we’d made something magical.’ 

Katherine smiles at that, and nods. ‘Brilliant. Thanks, Dave.’ She says, and turns off the recording. 

‘All done?’ He asks, letting out a relieved sigh. 

‘All done.’ She says. ‘And off the record - the shirt suits you.’ 

*

Davey doesn’t take the shirt off, not even when he gets home. 

It’s late, the sky outside just fading into an inky blue colour, the moon casting a soft, pale light into his living room. He’s sitting on the sofa, his empty bowl and fork on the coffee table, a blanket over his legs. He can still smell Jack on the collar of the shirt, and it’s terrifyingly intoxicating. He thinks to himself that he really must change out of it, before he does something stupid like go to sleep wearing it. 

He tries to watch something, but he can’t keep his mind from straying, from venturing into the hectic muddle of his thoughts. 

He doesn’t quite know what to do now that he has the knowledge that Jack was the one to initiate the kiss. He weighs it in his head, trying to decide how he feels about it. 

He doesn’t quite know what to do now that Jack has the knowledge that he kissed him back with just as much fervour. For some reason, he doesn’t quite trust Jack with it, doesn’t like that he can do whatever he wants with that information. 

It’s not that he’s afraid Jack will flaunt it, or tell the others, or use it against him. He just doesn’t like that his emotions aren’t all within him, that he no longer has a monopoly over them. It is as though they have spilled over the edge, still messy and unorganised. He doesn’t even understand them. How can Jack? 

He thinks, absently, that he should probably speak to someone. Sarah, or Buttons, or Albert. But right now, that would just feel like spilling even more over the edge. 

He hugs his knees into his chest, and tries to concentrate on the show he’s watching. All that happens is that he can smell Jack’s shirt even more strongly. It makes him feel a little light-headed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if ur here leave a comment! or reblog the post for this chapter on my tumblr u guessed it @weisenbachfelded  
> sending u alll love! i hope everything is good for u and if it’s not im manifesting that everything is in the very near future


	10. saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i shit you not the kiss scene alone in this is 1.5k i loved writing it but god they are so fucking stupid

Saturday morning dawns bright and early and full of jitters.

Jack spends a little longer than he would like to admit in front of the mirror, picking out a shirt, and combing his hair.

It’s because the public is going to be there, he tells himself. No doubt he’ll be speaking to hundreds of people. He picks out a black shirt, and rolls the sleeves up to his elbows. He hesitates for a moment before slinging a necklace on, nothing fancy, just a silver chain with a hand-me-down ring on it in place of a pendant. People tell him it looks good whenever he wears it, and it’s garnered him more than a few free drinks at bars. 

He picks Gigi up and kisses her on the top of her head as he is about to leave, ignoring the way she yowls and scrambles to get down. The moment he does set her down, of course, she winds her way around his ankles, mewling for his attention. 

‘You’re so annoying.’ He tells her, and gives her one last scratch between the ears, before he leaves. 

*

He takes a quick walk around the convention centre when he arrives, checking that everything is in order. He tidies away some tools, straightens out a wooden pole, and picks off some dead flower heads. Towards the front, there is a large, leafy evergreen, half-trampled, probably by some clueless reporter. He sighs, and makes his way back to the entrance to find someone more qualified than him to fix it. 

Davey is next to the entrance, on his own, leaning against a wall and scrolling on his phone, one of those eco-friendly reusable cups of coffee in one hand. 

‘Morning, Davey.’ Jack says, unsure of quite how he’s supposed to approach him. 

‘Morning.’ Davey says tersely, looking up from his phone, but not quite meeting Jack’s eyes. 

‘I, uh - ‘ Jack clears his throat. ‘Could you come and take a look at one of the displays? There’s a plant there that’s been trampled on, d’you think you could make it look presentable?’

‘Right now?’ Davey looks as though there’s nothing he’d like less. 

‘Well, ideally it wouldn’t be after the show opens.’ Jack snaps, suddenly irritated. 

‘You know what I mean.’ 

‘If you could just give me a goddamn straight answer - ‘

‘Listen, Jack.’ Davey interrupts him. ‘It’s five in the morning, and I haven’t had nearly enough coffee to deal with your bullshit. Get Crutchie to do it or something. I’ll see you later.’

Jack watches, open-mouthed, as Davey storms off. 

Well, it’s good to know where they’re at. 

*

The first influx of people is even more overwhelming than Davey had thought it would be. There must be over a thousand of them, all shoving towards the front; people in suits and cocktail dresses, people in dirty dungarees and cargo pants, people with notepads and pens, with cameras, with potted plants ready for the contests they hold later in the day. 

He has the morning to himself, before his friends arrive, and he seizes the opportunity to actually take a look around. He walks through the tunnel of flowers, and drinks in the wide-eyed amazement of the guests, listens intently as they marvel at his handiwork. 

He passes by all the vegetables, suppressing his smile as he hears people compliment Finch’s work, wonder at the size and the colour of the hundreds of plants he’s tended to. 

He spends over an hour outside, wandering the same path through the flowerbeds over and over, watching as people bend to cup flowers in their hands, watching as people point out his rosebushes to others, watching as people stop and stare at his flowers. It sort of makes him want to cry, this intense pride he has for the work he has done, and for the work of the people he can now call his friends. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he takes it out to see the alarm he had set for himself ringing, reminding him it’s lunchtime, and that his friends will he arriving soon. 

He makes his way back to the break room, still stopping every now and then to eavesdrop as people marvel at the displays. 

‘Hey!’ 

Davey stops dead in his tracks, frowning, and looking around for the source of the whisper. 

‘Davey!’ The whisper is coming from the store closet near the break room, the door to which is mostly hidden by tall, leafy plants. 

He moves closer, to see that the door is open, just a sliver. He puts a hand on the doorframe, intending to peer inside, when a hand closes around his wrist and pulls him inside, and slams the door shut behind him. 

‘Jack, what the fuck?’ Davey hisses, tugging his wrist away. 

‘Did people see you?’ 

‘I - no, I don’t think so. What are you - ?’

Before he can finish, Jack’s mouth is on his, firm and insistent, and _fuck_ , it feels just as good as it had the day before - better even, for all his longing. Common sense gets the better of him, though, and he pulls away, staring at Jack. 

‘What was that for?’ He asks, eyes narrowed. 

Jack shrugs. ‘Shouldn’t I have done it?’

‘You were pissed at me five minutes ago.’ 

‘I’m still pissed at you.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question.’ Davey’s anger is suddenly refreshed, and he wonders, vaguely, if that is part of Jack’s appeal, if the spark between them is merely the lighting of the fuse of their mutual irritation. 

‘What else do you want me to say? Why did you kiss me back?’ Jack retorts. 

It is Davey’s turn to shrug. ‘You look hot in that shirt.’ He says, even though he knows it’s not really an answer. 

‘You think I’m hot?’ Jack asks, eyebrows raised. 

‘Well, yeah. I have eyes.’

‘Hilarious.’

‘And I thought it was, y’know. Kind of implied.’ Davey gestures between the two of them. 

‘It never hurts to hear it again.’ Jack says, hoping that Davey can’t hear the satisfied smile in his voice. 

Davey rolls his eyes. ‘Has anyone ever told you you’re really fucking needy?’ 

‘Is that a bad thing?’

‘No. It’s just an observation.’ 

‘You’re doin’ an awful lot of talking for someone who’s meant to be kissing me.’ Jack says, just to see irritation flicker in Davey’s eyes. 

‘I won’t kiss you at all if you’re not careful.’ 

‘I can always find someone else to kiss.’ Jack taunts. 

Surprisingly, that is what does it. Something in Davey snaps, and he kisses him fervently, both his hands on Jack’s hips, fingertips pressing hard enough to leave bruises. The very thought sends an odd sort of thrill through Jack; the thought that, when the flower show is over and Davey is gone, there might be some evidence of him left over on Jack’s body. Davey moves his hand up to the back of Jack’s neck, and he feels him roll his silver chain between his fingertips. Jack feels indecently smug at the fact that he had decided to wear it that morning. 

Jack breaks the kiss, ever so slightly, and mumbles against Davey’s mouth. ‘Has anyone ever told you you’re really fucking possessive?’ 

‘Is that a bad thing?’ Davey replies, a glint in his eye. He pulls right away as he says so, a hand on Jack’s chest to stop him from chasing after his mouth.

Well. Two can play at that game. Jack steps right back, untangling his hands from around Davey’s waist. 

‘You tell me.’ Jack says. 

Davey raises his eyebrows, just a little, teasing. Jack nearly gives in, there and then, nearly falls back into Davey’s arms without a second thought. Perhaps Davey had a point when he called him needy. 

Davey pauses, for a moment, considering. He feels like he’s fallen in a little too deep here, gotten entangled in something far more complex than anything he had wanted. And with _Jack_ , of all people, who, just hours ago, had been at his throat in an entirely different way. 

But then Jack’s eyes flicker down to his lips, in a way that has become horribly familiar in the last twenty-four hours. Davey can see his chest rising and falling in the dim light, can see his hands at his sides, quite unable to keep still, as though he is desperate to reach out for him, itching to touch him again. Jack smiles, a little nervously, but enough for his dimples to show, just a little. 

Any common sense that Davey might have had left seems to evaporate. He takes one stride forwards, hooks his fingers into Jack’s belt loops, and pulls him against him, their mouths resting, feather-light, against each other. Jack melts into him, letting out what is surely an involuntary sigh, a puff of warm air brushing over Davey’s lips. 

Davey nudges his top lip with his own, not quite a kiss, not yet. Jack groans in frustration, and tries to reach forwards to capture a kiss. Davey doesn’t let him, dodging his mouth to press a kiss to his jaw, right next to his left ear. He might not be able to say it in so many words, but for now, he uses his kisses to try and press his admiration, his deep, terrifying longing, into Jack’s skin. 

Perhaps Jack feels it - or perhaps he doesn’t, and he just really likes it when Davey kisses his neck. Nevertheless, he tips his head back and sighs, exposing the side of his neck, a silent plea. Davey almost wants to laugh, at how unreal this feels, at how pliant Jack is beneath his hands. He kisses along Jack’s jawline, trying all the while not to be too gentle, too reverent, still trying to keep that biting edge in their every touch. 

Jack’s hands are on his waist, twisting into the sides of his shirt, and he keeps letting out these breathy little gasps. Davey wants to be swept away by them. He can tell when he’s hit a sweet spot by the way Jack tenses, by the way he pulls Davey in like he can’t possibly get enough of him. 

‘ _Shit_ , Davey.’ Jack sighs, when he kisses the side of his neck just a little too hard. Jack is mumbling his name, over and over, and this entire thing feels rather like a dream, and a little too intimate for whatever it is that they have going on. 

Davey stops kissing his neck, and Jack lets out an honest-to-god _whine._ They stare at each other for a moment, and Davey’s chest suddenly aches with some strange, deep, desire that he doesn’t want to think about. 

Davey kisses him, hard. The moment their lips touch, it feels like his entire body is filled to the brim with lightening. Jack is using his grip on his waist to pull them forwards, so that he is trapped between Davey’s body and the wall. Instinctively, Davey places a hand at the back of his head, so that when he hits the wall, it is Davey’s knuckles that take the brunt of it, rather than the crown of Jack’s head. Jack hums appreciatively against his mouth, and begins to trail his fingers along Davey’s sides, flattening the palm of his hand against Davey’s stomach, fingers teasing at the buttons of his shirt. 

Following Jack’s lead, he edges his fingertips to Jack’s top button, deftly undoing it and tracing a path across his collarbone with a fingertip, underneath the silver chain at his throat. He thinks, in the back of his mind, that he wants to follow that path with his mouth, to run his mouth across the dip and curve of Jack’s collarbones, to leave blue-purple bruises behind, an impermanent record that, even for a moment, he was here. 

Jack pulls their mouths apart, still clinging onto Davey desperately. 

‘Fuck. Fuck, Davey, you can’t do this when we’re - ’ he breaks off, breathing heavily, trying to regain himself. 

‘You were the one begging me to kiss you.’ Davey says, trying with all his might to sound effortlessly nonchalant. He lets go of Jack, who leans back against the wall, clutching onto a shelf for support. 

Jack looks absolutely _wrecked_. Davey wonders, in mild amusement, if he knows it. His mouth is still parted, as if mid-kiss. His hair, already a mess, is tousled in the way that only another’s hand can make it. The light is too dim for him to see properly, but he knows that Jack’s lips are red and kiss-bitten, knows that his pupils are blown wide and dark. 

Davey almost complains when he reaches up to fumble with the button on his shirt. _Almost._ Jack can’t quite seem to do it, letting out a frustrated sigh and letting his hands fall to his sides. 

Without a word, Davey reaches out, to button it up for him. 

‘I never expected to be putting your clothes _on_.’ Davey grumbles, under his breath. Jack laughs, quietly, at that, and Davey feels himself blush. 

He looks up, and their eyes meet. Davey, by some deep instinct, almost leans in to press a final, chaste kiss to Jack’s mouth. He stops himself at the very last moment, and steps back. 

‘I’ll, uh - ’ Davey clears his throat. ‘I’ll see you around, Jackie.’ 

Without waiting for a response, Davey opens the door to the closet, and hurries out. 

*

Jack watches out of the corner of his eye as Davey shows his friends around the displays. He recognises several of them - Albert, of course, with their flaming red hair, is easily recognisable, and has their arm around Race’s waist. Race looks unbelievably happy, his worlds colliding, and, even from afar, Jack can see the sparkle in his eyes, the lifting of his features as he stares up at Albert. 

They are stood with two others Jack doesn’t recognise - a girl in denim dungarees, with her hair in braids, who is talking excitedly to Finch, and a short guy in a red striped t-shirt, whom Davey is showing a display of plants. 

Katherine is with them too, her hand interlaced with Sarah’s. Jack wonders, for a moment, what Sarah is doing here, until she turns around to speak to Davey. He suddenly sees their matching smiles, the identical colour of their hair, the way that both their noses scrunch up when they laugh. Jack suddenly feels very stupid, and very left out. 

It is at that moment that Davey looks up, over the top of the display, and catches him staring. Jack ducks down, heart thudding, crouching behind a row of plants. The people around him are looking at him funny, but he can’t really bring himself to care. 

There is a dull ache in his chest, like the breath has been knocked out of him without any warning. Feeling a little nauseous, he straightens up, dusts off the dirt from his trousers, and goes to find Crutchie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think this is the most reasonable time ive ever updated?? it’s 4pm?? what’s going on???  
> anyway leave me a comment! or hit me up on tumblr @weisenbachfelded :))


	11. sunday (am)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone take away my kiss writing privileges this is literally so self indulgent
> 
> id recommend reading this with the end notes open on another tab so u can get the translations! or if u want the Authentic experience then u too can have absolutely no fucking clue what davey is saying in french. it’s up to u

Davey searches for Jack the moment he steps into the convention centre. After yesterday, he doesn’t even try and pretend, doesn’t even try and stop his eyes from skimming the room, looking for him. 

Just an hour away from opening, though, the entire building is buzzing with movement, people hurrying around to fix things before the crowds flood in. Jack is nowhere to be seen. 

Specs spots Davey, and immediately begins shoving their way through the crowd with such determination it’s almost scary. 

‘Morning, Specs.’ Davey says, once they are within earshot. 

‘Hey, Dave.’ Specs says, distractedly, looking down at their phone as they speak. ‘Are you still okay to meet the French reporter?’

‘Yeah, of course.’ Davey nods. 

‘Thank you.’ Specs sighs with relief. ‘I’ll speak to the Spanish reporter, but French is just so - ‘

‘Confusing?’ Davey says, smiling. 

‘So confusing.’ Specs says. ‘If I thought learning English was hard...’ They let out a whistle. ‘Anyway. Meet me by the entrance at - ‘ they check their watch ‘- eight forty-five?’ 

‘ _Levanta eso, jefe.’_ Davey says, which makes Specs smile. Davey takes a pen from his pocket, and scribbles on his hand **_french guy 8:45 entrance_**. He underlines it, and caps the pen again. 

‘ _Sigo olvidando que puedes hablar español._ ’ Specs says. ‘ _Es muy útil cúando quiero hablar mierda acerca de Race.’_

‘I know you’re talking about me!’ Race yells from the other side of the room. Davey and Specs both laugh. 

‘ _Tengo que encontrar Crutchie._ ’ Davey says, checking the time on his phone. ‘ _¿Necesitas algo más?’_

_‘No, no, todo està bien. Hasta luego.’_

_‘Hasta luego, Specs.’_

____

____

___*_ _ _

___After checking on several of his own plants, Davey heads off to find Crutchie, fixing a wooden pole that discreetly holds up a foxglove. His heart plummets into his stomach when he sees Jack with him, crouched down low, holding the base of the pole._ _ _

___‘Hey, Crutchie.’ Davey says, trying desperately to keep his voice steady. ‘Morning, Jackie.’_ _ _

___Jack looks up at him from where he is crouched on the floor. His eyes, Davey knows his eyes are brown, of course, but right now, they seem somehow different, warm and safe-looking, and Davey can see little light patches around the edges of his irises, that he can imagine glowing almost gold in the sunlight._ _ _

___‘Hey, Davey.’ Jack says. Crutchie looks between them, frowning, and then sighs, heavily._ _ _

___‘Morning, Dave.’ Crutchie says, and they sound tired. ‘Excited for today?’_ _ _

___‘Yeah, I am.’ Davey says, smiling. ‘My sister’s coming again, so that’s nice.’_ _ _

___‘I still can’t believe Sarah’s your sister.’ Crutchie says, shaking their head. ‘All this time, and we never met. Unbelievable.’_ _ _

___‘I know!’ Davey laughs. ‘You’d think she was trying to hide me, or something.’_ _ _

___Crutchie laughs at that. Jack does not._ _ _

___‘Anyway,’ Davey says, ‘I came to ask if you wanted a cup of coffee?’_ _ _

___‘Specs’ instant coffee?’ Crutchie asks, wrinkling their nose. ‘It’s so gross, but… yeah, go on. Thanks, Dave.’_ _ _

___Davey nods. ‘No problem. You want anything, Jack?’_ _ _

___Jack looks up again, as though he’s surprised Davey had even asked._ _ _

___‘Uh - yeah. I’ll come get it, though.’ Jack says, and the rosy patches on his cheeks become suddenly more prominent. Davey wants to kiss them. The thought doesn’t go much further than that, which, Davey thinks, is a credit to his brain, so concerned with overthinking._ _ _

___The two of them walk, side by side, to the break room, in a kind of awkward silence._ _ _

___‘I didn’t know you had a sister.’ Jack says, suddenly. ‘I didn’t know Sarah was your sister.’_ _ _

___‘Have you met her before?’ Davey asks._ _ _

___‘Yeah, a couple times. How come you never mentioned her?’_ _ _

___Davey shrugs. ‘You didn’t ask.’_ _ _

___‘All the others knew.’_ _ _

___‘They asked.’_ _ _

___Jack doesn’t reply to that. He frowns down at his feet._ _ _

___‘Did you manage to fix that plant yesterday?’ Davey asks, because he does feel a little bad at how he had snapped at him._ _ _

___‘Yeah, no thanks to you.’ Jack says, and his voice is suddenly bitter. It is a little startling, and it ignites an odd flame of anger and disappointment within Davey._ _ _

___‘Sorry I had other priorities.’ He snaps back._ _ _

___‘Oh, for fuck’s - ’ Jack stops himself, and breathes deeply. ‘Look, I’m gonna - ’ he jerks a thumb behind him. ‘I have stuff to do. I’ll see you around.’_ _ _

___Davey watches him go, watches him walk aimlessly around for a moment, before disappearing into the crowd. His chest aches._ _ _

___*_ _ _

___At eight forty-five, Jack watches out of the corner of his eye as Davey welcomes the French reporter._ _ _

___He’s waiting for Katherine to meet him, and he wishes she would just hurry up._ _ _

___Davey is speaking in rapid-fire French again, far too fast for Jack to pick out any words. The reporter is young, not much older than them, with floppy brown hair and a pearly white smile. He says something Jack doesn’t understand, and Davey laughs, his head tilting back as he does, letting the line of his throat show._ _ _

___Jack’s chest feels suddenly very hollow. He can’t quite figure out why. He assumes that it is the primal part of him that wants Davey to push him up against the nearest wall, wants to press his mouth down the line of Davey’s throat, to feel the shape of his mouth against his own as he laughs that _stupid fucking laugh_. _ _ _

___‘Earth to Jack?’ Katherine waves a hand in front of his face._ _ _

___He jumps, unaware that Katherine had even approached him._ _ _

___‘Jesus, Kath.’ He says, putting a hand over his heart in exaggerated shock._ _ _

___‘You gonna show me around, or what?’ She asks._ _ _

___‘Yeah, yeah. Let’s get going.’ They walk off together, but Jack doesn’t take his eyes off Davey and the reporter._ _ _

___Davey’s wearing this plain white shirt, not nearly as ill-fitting as the blue one he had borrowed off of Jack. Quite the opposite - it fits him like a second skin, drawing attention (or, rather, drawing _Jack’s_ attention) to the muscles in his upper arms, and across his shoulders. Jack doesn’t quite know what to do now that he has the knowledge within him of what those shoulders feel like beneath his hands, the way his arms flex and go taut when they are wrapped around his own waist. _ _ _

___‘…Jack?’_ _ _

___‘Hm?’_ _ _

___‘Is it gonna be like this the whole time?’ Katherine asks, and she looks more than a little peeved._ _ _

___‘Like what?’ He frowns, even though playing dumb never works with her._ _ _

___She just looks at him, completely straight-faced._ _ _

___‘I’m not even looking at him!’_ _ _

___‘I never said you were.’_ _ _

___‘I - shut up. Shut up.’ He can feel himself blushing, and, if that weren’t embarrassing enough, she reaches down and gently pinches his cheek, right where he knows the skin is the brightest red._ _ _

___‘You’re so cute.’ She says, deadpan._ _ _

___‘Get off.’ He slaps her away, but they’re both only joking. At least, he thinks she is._ _ _

___A few metres ahead of them, Davey is laughing at the French guy again, and his hand is resting on his shoulder. He doesn’t know how much more of this he can take._ _ _

___*_ _ _

___Jack has just shaken off Katherine and her incessant teasing when his phone buzzes in his pocket, startling him out of his daze. His heart jumps straight into his throat when he sees the text, a short, curt message from Davey._ _ _

_Tool shed._

___His heart plummets back into the depths of his stomach. Of course, it’s just Davey needing his help with something or other. Honestly, it’s probably some stupid problem he could fix with Race, so he doesn’t know why he’s texting him._ _ _

___Begrudgingly, he makes his way to the tool shed outside, hidden round the back of the flowerbeds, where they store extra spades and trowels and gardening gloves, things that are hardly ever even used._ _ _

___ _ ___Jack opens the door, and is immediately accosted by Davey pulling him in by the front of his shirt. Jack hates that he is already becoming used to it, already pliant beneath Davey’s hand grabbing his shirt, already willing for Davey to press him up against a small stretch of empty wall._ _ _

___They pause, staring at each other. Davey has this strange little smile playing on his lips, as though he is deep in thought._ _ _

___‘What are you doing?’ Jack asks, and it comes out as barely more than a whisper._ _ _

___‘You seemed stressed.’ Davey says, shrugging._ _ _

___‘I’m not - why do you even - ’_ _ _

___‘You’ve yelled at me, like, five times today.’ Davey rolls his eyes. It is incredibly frustrating just how composed he seems to be, pressed flush against him. ‘And you keep giving me death glares whenever we pass.’_ _ _

___‘Not death glares.’ Jack mumbles._ _ _

___Davey raises his eyebrows, but he’s telling the truth. Jack really hadn’t meant for those to be death glares. He doesn’t think he’d had enough of his brain still functioning to differentiate between the type of looks he’d been giving. The combination of Davey speaking French and wearing that stupid tight shirt had seemed to erase any coherent thought from his brain._ _ _

___‘Oh yeah?’ Davey breathes, and presses his mouth to the side of Jack’s throat, just at the spot where his jaw meets his neck._ _ _

___‘Yeah.’ Jack says, and it takes an immense amount of self-control to keep his voice even._ _ _

___Davey draws back, and Jack gives a frustrated little groan a the loss of contact._ _ _

___‘You’re blushing.’ Davey says._ _ _

___‘Fuck you.’ Jack frowns, but he’s fumbling over his words, and everything feels a little hazy._ _ _

___‘Why were you staring at me?’ Davey asks._ _ _

___Jack sighs, and looks away - at least, as much as he can when he and Davey are nose-to-nose._ _ _

___‘You - it was hot.’ Jack mumbles. ‘The French thing. It’s hot. And the shirt.’_ _ _

___Davey laughs, quietly, and, for a moment, Jack thinks he’s going to kiss his forehead or his cheek, something soft, to match the tone of his laugh. He doesn’t though, but rather lets go of his shirt, smoothing it out with the flat of his hand, and snakes the other around his waist to rest on the small of his back._ _ _

‘ _Tu aimes quand je parle le français?_ ’ Davey says, just to see Jack blush bright pink. _'Tu aimes quand je t’embrasse -_ ’ he presses another, open-mouthed kiss to Jack’s jaw, and speaks against his skin. ‘ _en le parlant_?’ 

___‘Shit, Davey.’ Jack lets his head fall back against the wall of the shed with a soft thud._ _ _

___Davey laughs, low in his throat, and Jack wants to swallow the sound, to consume it, to keep it within him, to hide it from the world. He never wants anyone but him to hear that sound again. And _fuck_ , if that thought doesn’t terrify him. _ _ _

___Davey chases his mouth as his head falls back, and when he presses their lips together, his touch is burning, red-hot. Jack kisses him back with as much vigour as he can muster, head still swimming with confusion and sheer, unabashed wanting._ _ _

___‘Jesus, you really like it that much?’ Davey asks, barely moving his lips against Jack’s mouth. Jack feels himself flush bright red, but he nods, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. Davey laughs again, and it sounds as if he is almost incredulous, disbelieving._ _ _

‘ _Comment peux-je commencer?_ ’ Davey murmurs, against his lips. Jack thinks he might pass out, there and then, tangled in the web of Davey’s words, of the low sound of his voice. 

_’Je pouvais dire n’importe quoi, et tu ne comprendrais jamais.’_ Davey says, as he presses warm, soft kisses to the side of Jack’s mouth, across his cheek, down his jawline, and onto his neck. 

Jack finds himself edging up onto tiptoes, and tilting his head sideways so that Davey can get to his neck more easily. Davey hums his approval, and Jack lets out an involuntary sigh as the vibration of his mouth echoes through him. 

_’Tu m’embrouilles._ ’ Davey says, and he laughs a little as he does, as though it amuses him that Jack cannot understand a thing. ‘ _Tu me distrais.’_

___Jack wonders, in the depths of his mind, what it is that Davey is saying. He finds that he doesn’t really want to know, wanting to revel simply in _Davey_. ___

____

____

_’Je souhaite que je savais ce que tu penses_.’ Davey says, and he curves himself around Jack’s body, pulling them infinitely closer together, tucking his head into the gap in between his neck and his shoulder, as though he is slotting them together, two pieces of a jigsaw, one ending where the other begins. 

____Something about this isn’t quite right. It feels as though all of Jack’s blood is racing around his body, swirling in the pit of his stomach, making his head pound, his heart race. He suddenly feels as though he can’t get enough of Davey, as though he can’t get close enough to him, as though he wants nothing more but to turn to stone in this spot, with Davey hooked around him, and his words still ringing in his ears._ _ _ _

_'Mon cœur,_ ’ Davey says, and his voice is but a whisper, his mouth only millimetres from Jack’s ear, _‘qu’est-ce que je ferai quand tu ne me veux plus?’_

__Jack takes Davey’s face in both hands, and presses their mouths together. There is no force behind it, none of the hatred, the anger, the competition that has so consumed their every other touch. Davey kisses him back, and it is almost startling to Jack that he kisses with the same softness - more startling than any of the force of his other kisses._ _

__Davey stumbles backwards, blinking at him as though suddenly arisen from a trance. His eyes are so very blue, Jack thinks to himself. They are so wide, so open, and so, _so_ blue. _ _

__

__

__‘I should go.’ Jack says, still staring at Davey. He almost doesn’t register saying it; there is certainly no decision made in his mind to say those words._ _

__‘Okay, Jackie.’ Davey says, but he doesn’t move, as though he is waiting. Jack steps forward to leave, but he stops with one hand on the door handle._ _

__‘I’ll see you later?’ He says, and he doesn’t mean it to come out as a question, but it still does, against his will._ _

‘ _À plus tard, mon cœur._.’ Davey says, with a gleam in his eye, and Jack rolls his eyes, sure he’s said something scathing. 

__‘Shut up.’ He says, and he leaves._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:
> 
>   
> _levanta eso, jefe_ \- got it, boss
> 
> _sigo olvidando que puedes hablar español_ \- I keep forgetting that you can speak spanish
> 
> _es muy útil cúando quiero hablar mierda acerca de Race_ \- it’s very useful when I want to talk shit about Race
> 
> _tengo que encontrar Crutchie._ \- I have to find Crutchie
> 
>  _¿Necesitas algo más?_ \- Do you need anything else?
> 
> _no, no, todo està bien. hasta luego._ \- no, no, it’s all good. see you later 
> 
> _tu aimes quand je parle le français?_ \- do you like it when i speak french?
> 
> _tu aimes quand je t’embrasse en le parlant?_ \- do you like it when i kiss you while im speaking it?
> 
> _comment peux-je commencer?_ \- how can i begin?
> 
> _je pouvais dire n’importe quoi, et tu ne comprendrais jamais_ \- i could say anything, and you would never be able to understand 
> 
> _tu m’embrouilles_ \- you confuse me
> 
> _tu me distrais_ \- you distract me
> 
> _je souhaite que je savais ce que tu penses_ \- i wish that i knew what you’re thinking
> 
> _mon cœur, qu’est-ce que je ferai quand tu ne me veux plus?_ \- my love, what will i do when you no longer want me?
> 
> _à plus tard, mon cœur_ \- see you later, my love
> 
> some of these, ESPECIALLY the spanish, are likely to be very clumsy. if u speak either language fluently pls let me know any corrections in the comments and ill make some changes!  
> ty and love to u all (especially if u leave a comment)


	12. sunday (pm)

Davey spends the rest of the day in what he can only describe as a daze. He speaks to Sarah, shows her around, laughs at her jokes, cracks his own, but he feels as though he is on an entirely different plane of existence to her. 

It feels as though Jack is inhabiting a space in the back of his mind, as though he has settled there with no intention whatsoever to leave. In a way, Davey feels giddy, his entire body still rushing with the exhilaration of Jack’s touch, of having Jack so unabashedly and irreverently _his_ , even if for the briefest of moments.

Sarah leaves at two, rushing to get to her three o’clock matinee performance. 

‘I’m so proud of you, Dave.’ She tells him, right before she leaves, his hands in both of hers. ‘I know how much this meant to you.’

‘Thanks, Saz.’ He says. She must be able to tell that he can’t quite look at her, because she puts a gentle hand beneath his chin, and frowns at him. 

‘What’s going on with you?’ She asks. ‘You were all smiles yesterday, and now... ’

‘I’m fine.’ He says, moving his head a little so her hand is no longer touching his face. ‘Just - things are confusing.’

‘Oh.’ She says, and nods, pressing her lips together. 

‘What do you mean, ‘oh’?’ He frowns. 

‘I mean, I know what’s going on. I can see how he looks at you.’

‘What, like he hates me?’ Davey scoffs. ‘That’s ’cause he does.’ 

‘Dave, the fact you didn’t even ask who I was talking about just told me everything I need to know.’ She says, and the pity in her gaze makes him feel uncomfortable. Her phone starts ringing abruptly. ‘I’m sorry - ’ she says, fishing in her pockets for it. 

‘It’s fine, Sarah.’ He says, and gives her a quick hug. She hugs him back, a little tighter than necessary. But, before either of them can say anything else, her phone is pressed against her ear, and she is backing away, blowing him kisses. He waves, half-heartedly. 

*

Davey tries to distract himself for the final two hours of the flower show, but never quite manages. It seems as though everyone working there has finally exhaled, finally taken the chance to relax, and he is still stuck on an inhale, his lungs full of air that he is desperate to let go. He doesn’t know how much longer he can hold his breath. 

He wanders, aimlessly, through the rows and rows of flowers, watching as the crowds slowly dwindle, the closer they get to closing time. Having had so much time to appreciate his flowers the day before, he finds his attention focused on the people - those he recognises, and those he doesn’t; those who see his badge, stop him and ask for help, and those with matching badges, who smile at him, a silent congratulations. 

He sees his friends, scattered around the hall, almost all of them paired off. Race and Albert, twined together even as they walk - Race’s arm around Albert’s waist, and Albert holding his hand where it rests on their hip. They look as if it might physically pain them, were they to be separated. 

Crutchie and Finch are together, Finch crouched down so as to be in Crutchie’s level as they talk. Finch is looking down at Crutchie’s hand, running his fingers over their knuckles, almost as if he is hardly paying any attention to the motion. The sight surprises Davey - in a quiet sort of way - because he hadn’t even realised they were together. He wonders just how oblivious he has to have been in the last week to miss the signs that he is sure have been there. 

Specs is walking around hand in hand with Romeo, swinging their joined hands as they go. Specs must have at least five inches on Romeo, and he is looking up at them as if Specs has single-handedly grown every flower in the hall, as if Specs holds the secrets to life itself. Davey, surprising even himself, does not feel jealous of them. 

Well, he does a bit. It makes his chest ache to see so many of them paired off, so deeply in love. He had always thought it would be pure chance to find someone, someone who he could look at like Romeo does Specs, who could fit to his shape the way Albert does Racetrack, who could love him in that quiet, tentative reverence that Finch loves Crutchie. Seeing the three pairs, though, he wonders how it can be such a game of luck, if they have each found this kind of love with each other. It sort of makes him want to cry. 

*

He says goodbye to each of them, all smiles and a few tears, hugs and cheek-kisses and promises and exchanged phone numbers. 

‘We’re having a get-together, tomorrow night.’ Race says, as he puts his number into Davey’s phone, and selects a string of emojis to be put next to his display name. ‘It’s tradition. Crutchie’s hosting it this year, I’ll text you details later.’

‘I - okay.’ Davey says, already formulating half a dozen excuses. 

‘Hey, Crutchie!’ Race calls. ‘Is Jack coming this year?’

‘No clue. I doubt it.’ Crutchie shrugs, wheeling over to them. 

‘Jack never comes.’ Race explains, and suddenly, Davey has no such need for his excuses. ‘He’s always too tired, or got other plans.’ Race rolls his eyes. 

‘Spoilsport.’ Crutchie says, darkly. ‘Anyway, I’ll see you around, Dave.’ Davey leans down to give them a quick hug. 

‘See you around, guys.’ He says. He watches as they leave, wanting to drag out his last few moments here for as long as humanly possible. 

Davey walks around, one last time. He makes his way through the tunnel of flowers, past Finch’s vegetables. Eventually, he finds himself at the lake, in the very centre. 

Romeo has built a wooden bridge that crosses over it, and Crutchie has wound ivy around the handrail, and around an arch at either end. That morning, Davey had watched as Katherine and Sarah kissed under that archway. 

Jack is sitting on the bridge, cross-legged, staring out at the hall, eyes unfocused as though in a dream. He hasn’t seen Davey, and he has no reason to. It would make sense for Davey just to walk away, to pretend he hadn’t seen him, to continue acting as though nothing had happened between them, just as they both had all day. But he doesn’t. 

‘They’re locking up.’ Davey says. Jack starts. 

‘I know that.’ He frowns, but his face relaxes when he sees that Davey is just poking fun at him. 

‘I was just saying goodbye to the others, and - I don’t know. Should I say goodbye to you?’ Davey asks, and he knows he’s babbling, just thinking out loud. 

‘It’s okay, Davey, there’s no need.’ Jack says, with a shrug. ‘It’s not like we’re, y’know. Friends, or anything.’

‘Yeah, yeah, of course.’ Davey says, but he feels a little like he’s been punched in the gut. 

‘Don’t sound so disappointed. You didn’t exactly make an effort to be nice to me.’ Jack is frowning again, and Davey doesn’t know how to make it stop, this incessant aching deep in his bones, the heaviness of his heart, the constricting of his chest. 

‘Neither did you.’ Davey says, because he can’t think of anything else to say. 

‘Yeah, well. It’s been a frustrating fucking week.’ Jack says.

‘Yeah, I figured.’ Davey replies, bitterly. 

‘I’m sorry.’ Jack says, and it sounds as if he means it. Almost. 

‘Yeah. Me too.’ Davey says, quietly. They are silent for a moment, neither of them moving. 

Davey doesn’t even try and push away the thoughts crowding his brain, thoughts of Jack’s mouth upon his, of his body pressed close, of his hands, sweeping their way across every inch of him, a silent desire, a silent reverence. 

‘You going to Crutchie’s tomorrow?’ Davey says, and he doesn’t know why. It’s more to end the roar of the silence between them. 

‘What, so I can sit in the corner and watch all my friends make out?’ Jack says, with a bitter laugh. ‘Nah. I’ll be asleep before it even starts.’ 

Davey laughs, too. Jack won’t look at him. 

‘Maybe we got off on the wrong foot.’ Jack says, finally.

‘No shit.’ Davey replies, narrowing his eyes. 

Jack doesn’t say anything. 

‘What, that’s all you’re gonna say?’ Davey asks. Jack shrugs. ‘Jesus.’ Davey rubs his eyes with his hand, suddenly crushed by exhaustion and frustration and the terrifying weight of a desire that will never come to fruition. 

‘I just mean - ’

‘You’ve been nothing but mean to me!’ Davey bursts out. ‘And now you have the _nerve_ to say - ’

‘I said I’m sorry!’ Jack says, and there is just as much venom in his voice as there was the very first time they yelled like this. ‘God, if you weren’t such a - ’

‘Don’t even fucking start - ’

‘Stop fucking interrupting me! You couldn’t ever just let me be, you always had to be _better_ \- ‘

‘It’s not about that!’ Davey says, and he covers his face with his hands, just briefly. ‘For fuck’s sake, Jackie, you can’t just take out your frustration on me.’ His voice comes out far weaker than he had wanted, and when Jack replies, it is with a pitying tone that makes Davey’s blood boil. 

‘I know, I know. I already said, I’m sorry, I - ‘

‘I don’t mean that.’ 

‘What?’ Jack frowns, and he looks genuinely remorseful. The ache in Davey’s chest has returned with a vengeance. 

‘I mean by kissing me. Maybe making out with people you hate is how you cope, but…’

‘I don’t - ‘

‘It’s fine, Jack. You never have to see me again, now. Forget about it.’ Davey turns, ready to leave. 

‘Davey, wait.’ Jack stands up, quickly, coming to rest beneath the ivy-covered archway. ‘Is this - is this it?’

‘Yeah, I guess.’ Davey shrugs. 

‘Right. Right, okay.’ Jack nods, looking down. 

‘What, you want me to kiss you goodbye or something?’ 

Jack doesn’t respond, but his silence is enough. 

‘Are you going to, then?’ Davey asks, quietly. 

‘What?’ 

Davey smiles, just a little. ‘Kiss me.’

Jack doesn’t need to be told twice. Davey’s arms wrap around him as though they had been already outstretched, waiting. He presses his mouth to Jack’s, softer than before, more gentle. Both their mouths stay closed, just the slant of lips on lips. It feels sweet - not in taste, but in sensation, a dizzying feeling that Davey wants to cling onto with every fibre of his being. 

He doesn’t, though. He pulls back prematurely, not allowing himself to have his fill, not allowing either of them the satisfaction of any kind of completion. 

Without a word, he lets go of Jack, disentangles himself from their embrace. He doesn’t allow himself to look him in the eye, terrified of what he will do if Jack stares at him, if he is faced with the deep brown of his irises, if he is faced with the thing he so deeply desires. 

He has only taken a few steps, when Jack speaks again. 

‘Hey, Davey?’

Davey turns around, once more, rolling his eyes. 

‘Oh, for - what now?’

‘I can’t fucking stand you.’

‘Yeah, yeah. The feeling‘s mutual.’ 

*

Jack gets the subway home, spending the few stops between the convention centre and his house in a daze, as though he is walking in his sleep. 

The train lights flicker off, as they rattle along. It hasn’t quite settled in, yet, that he might not see Davey again - at least, certainly not in the way that he wants to. He thinks, in the back of his mind, that that was the first time Davey had ever asked him to kiss him - at least, so explicitly, in so few words. 

With a soft buzzing noise, one or two lights flutter on and off, an odd fluorescent glow. Jack suddenly knows what he wants. 

The lights flick back on. Two dozen pairs of eyes barely look up from their phones, their books, their conversations. Jack wants Davey. 

The train grinds to a halt at his stop, and he gets off. The escalator is out of order, and he walks up the stairs, quite unaware that his legs are even moving. Jack wants Davey’s mouth, his arms, his hair, his voice. 

He walks the short distance from the station back to his apartment. It’s almost dark, and the streetlights are casting gentle beams of light across the pavement. Jack wants Davey’s smile, his arms around him, his hair intertwined in his fingers, his laugh. 

He unlocks the door to his apartment. Half of the lights in the hallway are broken. He hovers for a moment outside Crutchie and Finch’s ground floor apartment, and almost knocks. He can hear their voices, their laughter from inside. He knows there’s something going on between them; he sees the way Crutchie’s eyes light up at the very sight of Finch. He doesn’t knock. 

He walks up the four flights of stairs to his own apartment, preferring the monotonous rhythm of his own footsteps to the clunking of the elevator. He wants Davey’s hand in his, wants to bicker with him, wants to fall asleep and wake up next to him. 

He opens the door to his apartment, and Gigi curls her way around his ankles. He wants Davey. Does he love him?

He sits on the sofa, and pulls a blanket over him. Gigi settles on his lap, purring appreciatively. 

He doesn’t love Davey. But he wants to. He wants the chance to. 

He curls his knees up into his chest, careful not to dislodge Gigi, and tries not to cry. 

Gigi pushes her head up, beneath his chin, and rubs gently. He cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry?   
> leave a comment and tell me how mad u are at me!! love u all!!


	13. monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was so satisfying to write but it came out in one go at midnight. please lord let me sleep now.  
> (also added another chapter because this is just 3.3k of them being utterly hopeless. they are useless. i love them)
> 
> content warnings for people drinking/being a bit drunk, and someone throws up about mid-way through. skip from the start of the party to when jack and davey start talking to avoid it all!

Davey wakes up past midday on Monday, lounging in the bliss of not having to drive straight to the convention centre. Albert, Spot, and Buttons has insisted he take a day or two off, to recuperate after his long week. Any other time, he would have refused, or ignored them, but, after this week, he finds that he is simply grateful. 

He stretches out, and feels his back click satisfyingly. His pillow has left a crease down the side of his cheek. He rubs it, a little awkwardly, and reaches out to grab his phone. Something flutters, low in the pit of his stomach, and he feels a little sick, as though he is nervous. 

He clicks his phone on, and there is a message waiting for him: 

**pick u up at 8 !!!! wear something fancy ;))**

Davey rolls his eyes at Race’s text, but something within him is ridiculously happy that, the morning after the flower show is over, it feels as though nothing has changed. There had been that fear, he thinks, that the entire week would be merely temporary. There is a reassurance, therefore, in Race’s dumb texts, that he has not been forgotten. 

Even thinking that makes him feel a little overdramatic. 

What makes him feel even more so, is the realisation that the fluttering sensation in his stomach transforms into bitter disappointment, as he stares blankly at Jack’s name, a few lines below Race’s on his recent messages. He doesn’t know what he expected - some kind of desperate plea from him, some kind of revelation or confession. He turns his phone, face down, on the bedside table, and gets up, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, to get some food. 

He opens the fridge to realise that it is almost bare, neglected in his week at the flower show. Ignoring the growling of his stomach, he pours himself a bowl of cereal, before realising there is no milk. 

Frustrated, and still tired - despite his hours and hours of sleep - he traipses back to the bedroom to find some clothes, and look presentable enough to show his face in the store round the block. 

He barely makes it past his own front step, though, because there is a bouquet on his doorstep, in a brown paper bag. 

The flowers are wrapped in clear plastic, with a blue bow around them, and a little sack of water at the bottom to keep the stems wet. They are roses - and, on further inspection, he realises they are _his_ roses, the ones he had tended to in the outdoor flower beds at the show. He breaks out into a smile, and picks up the bag. They look just as beautiful as they had when he had left them, in pinks and whites and yellows, big, beautiful blooms. 

There is no address, no label - leading him to the conclusion that someone has gone to the effort of getting his address, and bringing them all the way to his apartment just to set them on his step. He isn’t quite sure what to make of that. 

He takes them inside and puts them in a vase, in pride of place on the kitchen table. He searches the bag for a note - near tips it upside-down looking for one - but he finds nothing. 

He goes out to get milk, his bowl of dry cereal sitting on the kitchen table, next to the bouquet of roses. 

*

Davey isn’t quite sure why he kept Jack’s shirt. 

It is a quarter to eight, and he has fifteen minutes before Race arrives to pick him up and take him to the party - wherever the hell it is. 

He is sitting on the edge of his bed, with Jack’s soft blue shirt in his hands. It has been through the wash - because he intended to give it back, he really did, but everything just became so chaotic in the last two days. Nevertheless, it still smells like Jack, a little earthy, and strongly of the charcoal he uses to draw in that little blue notebook, and is almost always smeared across the side of his left hand. 

In spite of himself (he knows it’s not good, he knows he’s overthinking everything again), he weighs up the pros and cons in his head, rubbing the fabric of the shirt between his finger and thumb. 

The cons:  
People will recognise the shirt.  
People will tease him about the shirt.  
People might tell Jack about the shirt.  
People might assume something about him and Jack.  
People might realise something about him and Jack.  
The shirt doesn’t fit him right, anyway.

The pros:  
He likes the shirt.  
Jack might not be at the party. 

His phone vibrates, resting on the mattress next to him. 

**outside & ready 2 party**

He bites his lip, eyes flicking between the text from Race and the shirt. He picks up his phone, and sends a quick text. 

_On my way :)_

He pulls the shirt on, and buttons it up. He rolls the sleeves up to his elbows, remembering the way Jack’s eyes had raked over him in the break room. He pauses in front of the mirror in the hallway, and undoes the top two buttons. Just in case, he tells himself. 

*

Race and Albert are waiting for him outside in a little blue car. Race winds down the window and leans out, one hand on the steering wheel. 

‘You look nice.’ He says, wiggling his eyebrows. 

‘Fuck off.’ Davey says, but he’s grinning. He gets in the car, greets Albert, and they drive off. He feels a little like a child, sitting in the backseat while Albert and Race sit up front. They are holding hands over the console. 

They talk, a little, on the journey there, but the party isn’t far away, and before long, they’re slowing down, while Race leans out to check they’re at the right building. 

And they pull up outside Jack’s apartment. 

‘Uh - Race?’ Davey says, suddenly panicking. 

‘Yeah?’ Race asks, checking his mirrors as he parks. 

‘Whose apartment is this at?’

‘Hm? Oh, yeah. Crutchie and Finch’s. Jack lives upstairs, but they live on the ground floor.’ Race replies, answering a question Davey hadn’t asked. 

Davey breathes a sigh of relief, and gets out of the car. He tries not to look while Race runs around the side of the car to open the door for Albert, and gives them a hand to get out of the car. They’re horribly sweet, and, as lovely as it is, it only makes him ache. 

*

As it turns out, when Race had described the party as a ‘small get-together’, he had literally just been lying. 

Crutchie and Finch’s apartment is crammed with people - admittedly, mostly people that Davey recognises, but it is still incredibly overwhelming. Race and Albert disappear into the crowd almost immediately, and, before he can protest, Specs is hanging off his arm, evidently tipsy. They can hardly walk in a straight line, a giddy grin across their face. 

‘Come and say hello to everyone, Davey!’ They implore. 

‘Okay, okay.’ Davey laughs, and lets himself be dragged to the centre of a circle formed by a gaggle of people lounging across sofas and armchairs. 

‘Everyone, this is Davey!’ Specs announces, presenting him to the group like a second grader at show-and-tell. The responses from the group vary from wolf-whistles to greetings to rolled eyes, and reminders that _we know, Specs, we’ve only been working with him for the last week_. 

Davey gives an awkward little wave, a little intimidated despite knowing most people present. Before he can move, Race swoops in and pulls him out by the arm, much to Specs’ protesting. 

They come to a stop in the kitchen, where Davey leans against the countertop, and exhales deeply, laughing. 

‘Thanks for saving me.’ He says.

‘No problem. It can be - ’ Race pauses, searching for the words. ‘A lot. You drinking tonight?’ 

‘Nah, I won’t.’ Davey says. 

‘No problem.’ Race pours out two paper cups of lemonade and hands one to Davey, which he sips from tentatively. ‘They’re like an entirely different group when they’re drunk.’ Race says, shaking his head. They can just about see the party through the door to the kitchen. They are currently playing some kind of drinking game that involves both Crutchie and Albert being blindfolded. 

There is so much movement that Davey can hardly see, and he can’t hear his own thoughts over the low pounding of some music he doesn’t recognise. He does notice, though, when the front door opens, just visible from where he is standing. Whoever has just come in moves through the crowd, and Davey can only see them by the ripples they create through the body of people. 

And then, suddenly, a gap forms between Katherine and Romeo. And, despite the darkness, he can see dark, curly hair and deep brown eyes, clear as day. He’s wearing suspenders again, over a loose-fitting white shirt. The lights are reflecting off of the silver chain around his neck. Davey thinks he might pass out. 

‘You said Jack wasn’t gonna be here.’ He says to Race, and he knows there is panic in his voice. 

‘Did I say that? I don’t think I did.’ Race frowns, taking a long sip of his drink. 

‘You definitely did.’

‘Uh, I think I know what I did and didn’t say.’ Race says, and his tone of voice makes Davey feel rather like he is being reprimanded. 

‘You absolute - ’

‘Crutchie! My love, this is fantastic!’ Race cries, holding out his arms to embrace Crutchie, who has just wheeled into the kitchen, blindfold-free. 

Jack follows them in, looking straight at Davey. 

Davey walks straight back out again, and disappears into the depths of the party. 

*

To his credit, he has managed to avoid Jack for over two hours. 

In that time, Davey has lost three games of Uno to people who are on the verge of being blackout-drunk, held Katherine’s hair back as she vomited into the toilet, and partaken in an odd kind of therapy session in the kitchen. 

(‘Don’t you ever get lonely, Dave?’ Katherine had asked him, nestled up, half on Sarah’s lap, eating a piece of dry bread and sipping on some water.

He had stood up and walked out at that, to the protesting of Albert and Race and Sarah and Kath, but none of them had followed him.)

He sits on the balcony, a fresh cup of lemonade in hand, and tries not to think about the party inside. The air smells vaguely of cigarette smoke.

‘Anyone sitting here?.’ 

He doesn’t answer, or turn around, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he’ll leave. 

He doesn’t. Jack closes the door behind him and takes a seat next to Davey. In the moonlight, he looks almost untouchable, as though he belongs somewhere far higher, far better than Crutchie and Finch’s grimy balcony, mere feet away from fifty drunk twenty-something-year-olds. 

‘Nice shirt.’ Jack says, smugly. 

‘Fuck off. I didn’t think you’d be here. I’m not weird.’ Davey replies. He feels on edge, as though something is about to go terribly wrong. Although, he supposes, it is a little too late for that. 

‘I never said you were.’

‘A guy you’ve made out with a couple of times shows up at your sibling’s party wearing your shirt. I hate to say it, but that’s fucking weird.’ 

That makes Jack laugh, and Davey finds himself tangled in the memory of feeling that same laugh, low in Jack’s throat, beneath his mouth. The line of his jaw is just visible in the low light. Davey wants it, wants him, more intensely than ever before. 

They are quiet for a moment. Davey looks out over the edge of the balcony, but he knows that Jack is looking at him. He wishes he could know what it is that Jack is thinking. 

‘I wish I’d done things differently.’ Jack says, suddenly. That surprises Davey, and he looks at him, almost against his will. Their eyes meet, and Davey forgets how to speak. 

‘Oh, yeah?’ He manages, finally. 

‘Yeah.’

Another moment of silence. It’s good to know, Davey thinks, that Jack is still just as annoying as he had been a week ago. 

‘You gonna tell me what you wish you’d done?’ 

‘Fuck you.’

‘And vice versa.’ Davey says, but there is no venom behind it, and he gestures his hand as he speaks. ‘So? What would you have done?’

‘Asked you questions. Learned about you. Flirted with you, maybe.’ 

Oh. That wasn’t what Davey had expected. He isn’t quite sure what he _had_ expected, but he finds that he is on edge again, desperate now to find out. 

‘You can ask me questions now.’ He says, leaving the second half of the sentence unsaid. 

‘Well, they’re a bit redundant. I know about your sister, and your friends, and your degree, and all the languages you speak.’ Jack says. There is something strange in his voice, this odd kind of restraint. Davey wishes he knew what it meant. 

‘So ask me something else.’

Jack pauses for a moment, thinking. Davey had never noticed before - or, perhaps he had, and is only just now realising he holds the memory within him - that Jack purses his lips when he is thinking. It makes Davey want to kiss him. 

No, it doesn’t. It makes him want to point it out to Jack. It makes him want to mimic him, just to make him laugh. It makes him want to trail his finger across Jack’s lips, and then kiss him, at the corner of his mouth, where he knows it will curve into a smile, if he says something funny enough. 

‘What’s your favourite plant?’ Jack says, finally, then shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear it. ‘Wait, never mind, I know that one as well. Shit.’ 

That really is a surprise. ‘How do you know?’ Davey asks. 

‘I - oh, maybe I’m wrong. Never mind.’ Jack is blushing, Davey knows. 

‘No, what were you gonna say?’ 

‘I would’ve guessed roses.’

‘You would’ve guessed right.’

‘Why are you so surprised, then?’

‘Because I don’t think I’ve ever actually told anyone that.’

‘Oh.’ Jack looks down at his hands. There is no doubt, now, that he is blushing, and it reminds Davey of the way cream-coloured roses go pink at the edges of their petals. 

‘What’s your favourite colour?’ Davey asks, because he supposes it is only fair for him to ask questions too, now that it seems as though that’s what they are doing. 

‘Really? That’s what you’re going with?’ Jack raises his eyebrows, but he’s smiling, just a little, just enough for his dimples to show, very faintly. 

‘Are you gonna answer or not?’

‘Blue.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really!’

‘That’s such a boring favourite colour. At least pick something interesting like orange or pink.’ Davey is gesturing with his hands as he speaks, now, having lost, momentarily, his self-consciousness. 

‘Orange and pink are shit colours.’ Jack says, wrinkling his nose. 

‘Okay, okay! I was just saying.’ Davey says, jumping to his own defence. 

‘What’s yours?’ Jack asks. 

‘Purple.’ Davey replies immediately. 

‘That’s a good favourite colour.’ 

‘Thank you.’

Jack is suppressing a smile, pressing his lips together. Davey wants to feel that smile spread across his face, pressed up against his skin, against his own mouth. 

‘You see? That’s how you flirt. Not by telling someone their favourite colour is stupid.’ Jack says, and he sounds pleased with himself. 

‘That was you flirting?’ Davey is smiling too, he knows, and he can’t help it. 

‘Uh - yes?’ Jack frowns, mock-annoyed. 

‘Have you ever actually gotten laid?’ Davey teases. 

‘Fuck you.’ 

‘Would you even know how?’ 

‘I hate you. I really, genuinely hate you.’ Jack says, shaking his head in disbelief. 

‘No you don’t.’

‘How do you know?’ Jack teases back. 

‘Because _I_ don’t hate _you.’_

That surprises Jack. He tilts his head sideways, and Davey can’t even bring himself to get distracted by the exposed line of his throat. He is too enraptured by the way Jack is narrowing his eyes, like he is trying to read Davey, to figure him out. 

‘You don’t?’ 

Davey shakes his head.

‘Really?’

‘Okay, maybe a bit. You were really fucking annoying those first few days.’ Davey admits, rolling his eyes. 

Jack just shrugs. ‘So were you.’

‘I know.’ Davey says. 

They are both silent for a moment.

And then, Jack reaches out a hand. Palm upturned, fingertips outstretched, in the space between the two of them. He is wearing two silver rings, one on his forefinger and one on his ring finger. Davey thinks, absently, that it is unreasonably attractive. And then, he realises that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so crazy for him to tell Jack that. 

He puts his hand in Jack’s and traces his fingertips over the ring on his forefinger. 

‘Jewellery is a really good look on you.’ Davey says, looking down at their joined hands. 

‘You think?’ Jack asks, and there is something akin to hope in his voice. Davey still doesn’t look up, a part of him terrified he will see that same hope in Jack’s eyes. 

‘Mm-hmm.’ Davey hums, unable suddenly to form words. 

‘Come home with me?’ Jack asks. 

Davey looks up at him, suddenly forgetting that fear that had so consumed him mere seconds before. 

He threads their fingers together, holding Jack’s hand a little tighter. 

‘You live upstairs.’ Davey says, a smile playing on his lips. 

Jack sighs, faking exasperation. ‘Can you please just let me be romantic?’

‘Oh, this is you being romantic?’

‘Fuck you.’

‘I just might let you.’

Jack thinks he feels his heart stop, very briefly, in his chest. 

‘Is that a yes?’ He asks. 

‘Yes to what?’ Davey frowns. 

‘Coming home with me!’ 

Davey breaks into a smile, and Jack wants to slap himself for being so eternally gullible to Davey’s teasing. 

‘Oh. Yes.’ Davey says, nonchalantly, but he is smiling, that now-familiar, sweet, secretive smile that has to be coaxed out of him. 

‘No need to sound so enthusiastic.’ Jack said. 

‘I might if you were better at being romantic.’

‘Hey! I sent you flowers!’

‘Wait, that was you?’ Davey looks genuinely surprised. 

‘Yeah. Who did you think it was?’

‘I don’t know. Specs? Race?’

Jack can’t stop smiling. Davey’s hand feels so comforting in his, so reassuring. He knows, and it is hardly even startling to him, that he never wants to spend another moment without it there. 

‘Why the hell would they send you flowers?’

‘I don’t know. As a thank you?’ Davey says, shrugging. He’s blushing, and it makes Jack feel a little dizzy. 

‘For the smartest person I’ve ever met, you can be really fucking stupid.’ 

‘I’m the smartest person you’ve ever met?’ 

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Yes, you - ’

‘Back to me being a romantic, please.’ Jack interrupts. 

‘Right, sorry. The flowers were really you?’

‘Yep.’ Jack says, trying not to look as embarrassed as he feels. 

‘Why?’

Now, that’s a question Jack hadn’t been expecting. He opens his mouth to answer, but find that he has no lengthy explanation, no long-winded reasoning. 

‘I really like you.’ He says, finally, very quietly, not looking at Davey. 

He hears Davey breathe in, very sharply and suddenly, almost a gasp. 

‘Oh.’ Davey breathes. ‘You’ve got a funny way of showing it.’ He says. 

Jack is reminded, for the thousandth time, why he is so hopeless before Davey. His smile, the way he tries to hide it, this genuine happiness, that Jack has seen just a few times before, knocks him to the ground. Jack finds that he doesn’t even have the wanting within him to get back up again. 

‘Are we going upstairs or not?’ Jack asks, finally.

Davey squeezes his hand, and nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing this was physically exhausting and there was no proofreading or editing so im very sorry if some bits make no sense. if ur here i love u and pls leave a comment!


	14. monday night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is 4.5k  
> this chapter is four and a half thousand freaking words  
> that’s more than ive written for essays. for actual, important essays that count towards my final grade. and it’s all in one chapter written in a day for a fic  
> anyway. im unbelievably proud of this

Davey doesn’t let go of Jack’s hand. 

As they shove their way through the crowds, it is an anchor to him, a protection from the wolf-whistles and the shouts and the teasing comments they are being heckled with as they leave. 

‘I’m gonna say goodbye to Crutchie.’ Jack says, and he sounds breathless. 

‘Okay. I’m going to say goodbye to Sarah.’ Davey replies, nodding. 

‘Meet you back here in five?’ 

‘Back here in five.’ Davey repeats. He hesitates for a moment, and then places a hand on Jack’s shoulder, and kisses him on the cheek. 

Before Jack can say anything else, Davey has darted off again, heading towards the kitchen. 

Katherine is still sitting on the tiled floor, cross-legged, looking a lot less queasy than she had earlier. Sarah is pouring herself another drink, and is midway through a conversation with Race. Albert is asleep on Race’s shoulder, and Race has an arm wrapped around them, tracing patterns on their upper arm with his fingertips. They all turn to look at him when he walks in - well, apart from Albert. 

‘Uh - I’m heading off.’ Davey says. He can’t look any of them in the eye. ‘I don’t need a lift home, Race.’ 

Race’s mouth falls open. Davey can tell that, were Albert not asleep on his shoulder, he would be doing something to the effect of punching the air and yelling. 

Sarah grins at him. ‘Glad to hear you’ve finally got it together.’ 

‘Shut up.’ Davey mumbles, but he’s smiling. 

‘David!’ Katherine calls to him from her spot on the floor, holding her arms out like a small child. 

He crouches down next to her and gives her a hug. 

‘Be safe!’ She says, when he pulls back, and bops him gently on the nose. He stands, and sees Sarah staring at her with a misty-eyed fondness in her expression. He hugs Sarah, quickly, and then leaves, chased by Race’s whisper-shouted insistence that he tell Jack he’s fucking stupid. 

Jack is already waiting for him by the front door. Neither says anything, but they join hands. Davey isn’t quite sure whose decision it had been - if one or the other had proffered their hand, if one or the other had accepted. 

Davey waves one last goodbye to the crowd at large, and then suddenly they are outside Crutchie and Finch’s apartment, and it is very quiet. 

He looks down at their joined hands, and then up at Jack again. Jack is already looking at him, a half-smile playing on his lips. 

‘You’re staring.’ Davey says, a little stupidly. 

‘Should I not be?’ Jack teases

‘I dont know.’ Davey says, rather frustrated that he can’t come up with a more amusing response. Jack doesn’t seem to mind, though, because he leans in a little closer, still staring at Davey. 

‘Can I kiss you?’ 

By way of a response, Davey leans down and presses their mouths together. 

Davey is mildly surprised that he doesn’t pass out on the spot, falling down flat on the patterned carpet of the hallway. 

His head is spinning, and it feels as though his only anchors to this reality are his points of contact with Jack - the soft, sweet, press of his mouth, and the firm grip of his hand in Davey’s. He can feel the cool metal of Jack’s rings against his fingers. 

It is Jack who pulls away from the kiss, and rests his forehead gently against Davey’s, standing half on his tiptoes to do so. Jack laughs, breathless, disbelieving. Davey is so used to drowning in his desire to swallow Jack’s laughs, to press kisses to the line of his throat, to feel the vibrations of his voice beneath his own mouth - but now, he wants no such thing. 

Well, he does. He’s not sure he’ll ever stop wanting that. 

But right now, he wants to be swept away by Jack’s laugh, carried on it like a leaf on the wind. He presses his forehead against Jack’s a little more firmly, and smiles. 

‘God, Davey.’ Jack says, and his voice sounds a little hoarse. ‘You’re gonna be the death of me.’ 

That knocks Davey sideways, sending his mind reeling. He can feel his cheeks flushing pink. Jack traces a hand over his cheekbone, where he knows he is blushing the brightest pink. Davey turns his head, very gently, and kisses the palm of Jack’s hand. His mouth lands, a little clumsily, half on his ring, and the bump of his lips on the cool metal makes him start just a little, which, in turn, makes Jack laugh, quietly. 

‘Stop laughing at me.’ Davey says into Jack’s palm, but he’s smiling, despite himself. 

‘As much as I would love to stay here - ’ Jack says, moving his hand to tuck an invisible curl of Davey’s hair behind his ear ‘- maybe we could go upstairs?’ 

‘Please.’ Davey breathes, and that is all it takes for Jack to break into a smile, all dimples and bright eyes. 

Davey grabs his hand and pulls him down the corridor, suddenly filled to the brim with excitement, with exhilaration, with sheer adoration for Jack, and for this feeling that he brings out in him. 

They stumble into the elevator, hands joined, and Davey crowds Jack into a corner. Jack fumbles behind him, pressing the button to take them to the sixth floor, and then melts into Davey’s touch, his hands furling into the front of his shirt. 

Davey doesn’t kiss him, though. The lights in the elevator are nothing less than dingy, dull and hardly enough to see by. Nevertheless, Davey simply stares at Jack, following the path of his gaze with his fingertips, trailing a path along his jaw, sweeping a thumb across his cheek, marking out the line of his nose with the tip of his forefinger. Jack scrunches up his nose when he does that, and Davey leans in to kiss that spot on the bridge of his nose, just because he can. 

Jack laughs again, that same, new, breathless laugh. 

‘I really like you, Jack.’ Davey says, surprising even himself. Jack’s eyebrows rise just a little, as though he is startled, as though he hadn’t ever expected Davey to say that. 

‘I - good.’ Jack says, and blushes immediately. ‘I mean - ’

‘I know.’ Davey says.

The elevator doors open on the sixth floor, and Jack leads Davey out, hand in hand, down the corridor towards his apartment. Jack lets go for a moment to find his keys, fumbling to find the right one. His hands are shaking just a little, Davey notices, as he puts the key in the lock and turns it. 

Jack’s apartment is much like what Davey would have imagined it to be. It is a little cluttered, full of mis-matched furniture that looks as though it has been thrifted from a thousand different stores. There are several notebooks scattered around, some lying open, showing light pencil sketches of indiscernable faces and buildings and people and plants. 

On the coffee table, there is an open sketchpad, and a half-finished painting in watercolour. Sat next to it are two mugs - both half-full of a dull brown liquid, and one with paintbrushes in it. The thought that either (or both) could be coffee or paint water makes Davey smile, as does the fact that he doubts Jack knows which is which. There are post-it notes on every surface, all covered in notes in Jack’s messy scrawl. Davey moves closer to look at a yellow note, stuck to the wall by the door, with a little drawing of a rose on the side. 

**take the flowers before 9am!**

Davey smiled at Jack, pointing to the note. 

‘You wrote a note to remind yourself to being me the flowers?’ He asks. 

‘Yeah.’ Jack says, looking down at his hands. ‘I just forget stuff otherwise.’ 

‘No, no, it’s really cute.’ Davey says, worried that Jack thinks he’s making fun of him. ‘I never thanked you for the flowers, either. I really loved them.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Jack says. He’s blushing again, that little rosy patch in the middle of each cheek spreading fast, all the way across his face. 

Davey thinks, for what must be the thousandth time, that he wants to kiss it. 

So he does. He steps into Jack’s space, takes his hands in his, and kisses his cheek. Jack lets out a little sigh, and moves his head as though he is pressing into the touch of Davey’s mouth. 

His nose brushes against Jack’s temple, and he rests his forehead there, wrapping himself around Jack, even in the smallest of ways. They remain separated in all other places except their hands, Jack’s still resting in Davey’s. 

‘What are you thinking?’ Jack asks. 

Davey wonders what he should answer. Were this to be any other hookup, he might suggest a move to the bedroom, ask permission to take things further, or perhaps just respond with a kiss. 

This, however, doesn’t feel anything like any of the hookups he has ever had. Hell, it doesn’t even feel like any of the relationships he’s ever had. He’s not sure a hookup would even ask that question in the first place. After realising he’s been silent for a moment too long, he simply tells Jack exactly what it is he’s thinking. 

‘You get this rosy patch on your cheeks when you blush.’ Davey says, lifting one hand to brush his thumb over it. ‘It goes all the way across your face when you’re really embarrassed, or something. I think it’s cute.’ His hand comes to rest, curved around Jack’s jaw. 

Jack pulls back, so as he can look at Davey. 

‘That’s what you were thinking?’ He asks. 

‘Yeah.’ Davey knows that he is the one blushing bright red, now, but he cannot bring himself to care. 

‘Do you feel it as well?’ Jack asks. Davey knows exactly what he means, even without an explanation, but he continues anyway. ‘This isn’t - this is different. There’s something here.’

Davey doesn’t respond. He doesn’t think he can breathe. His throat feels like it is closing up, his thoughts tangling, in the sheer elation that Jack is putting into words the very feelings he has hardly been able to admit to himself. 

‘Please tell me I’m not making it up.’ Jack says, and the low fear in his voice sends Davey’s heart tumbling into the pit of his stomach. ‘Please tell me it’s not just me.’

‘It’s not.’ Davey says, finally, his voice barely a whisper. ‘It’s not just you.’ 

‘Oh, thank god.’ Jack releases a breath, and presses their foreheads together. 

Davey finds that he is already used to it, to Jack pressing their foreheads together as a way of communication, as a silent utterance of words neither of them can quite form. It feels like comfort. It feels like wanting. It feels like needing. Most of all, it feels like a four-letter word Davey won’t say aloud. It feels like a promise, a reassurance that that word is there, somewhere, in Davey’s future. In _their_ future. 

‘What do you want?’ Davey asks. 

Very suddenly, Jack realises he doesn’t know. Or, rather, there are a million things he wants, but he isn’t quite sure which he wants _right now_. 

‘From this?’ Jack asks. 

‘I meant what do you want _now_.’ Davey says, with a smile. ‘But if you want to tell me that - ’

‘You.’ Jack says, suddenly, as though the word is toppling out of his mouth. 

‘Which question is that an answer to?’ 

‘Both.’ Jack says. ‘I think I want you for a very long time, Davey.’

‘I think I want that, too.’ Davey says. 

Jack almost laughs. It feels like a very roundabout way of saying it, of confessing anything at all, and yet, he understands entirely what Davey means, and he knows, by some strange force of nature, that Davey understands him too. 

‘Kiss me?’ Jack says. He doesn’t really mean for it to come out sounding like a question, but it does all the same. 

‘You sure about that?’ Davey asks, teasing a little, but Jack can hear that he is truly asking, truly caring. All of a sudden, Jack thinks he might cry. He looks down, tears stinging the backs of his eyes, willing himself not to let them fall. 

‘Hey.’ Davey says, putting a soft hand beneath his chin, nudging it upwards so that Jack looks at him. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing, nothing.’ Jack says, but his voice breaks, just a little. He sniffs, and wipes at his eyes with his hand, as though that will preemptively stop any tears. 

‘Jackie, love, talk to me.’ Davey says. Jack isn’t quite sure if he had even meant to say it, but the combination of Davey using that nickname and calling him _love_ , makes him suddenly crumple, and melt into Davey. 

Davey opens his arms to him, and simply holds him. Jack doesn’t cry - not properly, anyway - but simply stands there, holding onto Davey like an anchor. Davey has his hand on the back of Jack’s neck, his thumb rubbing gently, soothingly, occasionally brushing the chain of his necklace.

Jack has never believed that soulmates are real, and he doesn’t think that he ever will. But for a fraction of a moment, standing there, a metre from his front door, fit so perfectly, so comfortably to Davey’s form, he thinks that it would be impossible for him to ever find a person who matches the shape of his body as well as Davey does. 

When he eventually pulls back, Davey moves his hand from the back of Jack’s neck and wipes away a stray tear with the pad of his thumb, and lets his hand come to rest on the side of Jack’s face, cupping it with a gentle, comforting kind of reverence. 

‘I’m sorry.’ Jack says, laughing, still a little choked up. 

‘Don’t be.’ Davey says, immediately. 

‘It’s just a bit overwhelming.’ Jack says, though it feels embarrassing to admit it. ‘I’m sorry. You probably thought we were gonna have sex, not just cry at each other. We can still have sex! I’m not crying at the thought of having sex with you, I promise - ’

‘Jack.’ Davey stops him. ‘It’s okay. We don’t have to.’ 

‘It feels really fucking stupid that I’m crying about this.’

‘It’s not stupid.’ Davey says, and kisses him, as if to punctuate his sentence. Jack kisses him back, very briefly, and he pours everything he cannot seem to say into the momentary touch of their lips. ‘We’ve got a long time to do everything. To talk about everything.’

‘A long time?’ Jack asks, and he knows his eyes have lit up just at Davey’s words. 

‘I mean, if you want that.’

‘I do. I really, really do.’

‘Okay. Good. I do too.’ Davey says, frowning, just a little. 

Jack kisses him again, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and because he’s a little worried he’ll cry again if he lets himself babble on. Davey doesn’t let it last long, though, and mumbles, quietly against his mouth.

‘Are we gonna stand in the hallway all night?’

‘Maybe I want to.’ Jack replies, pressing little kisses to Davey’s mouth in between each word. Davey pulls away at that, eyebrows raised. ‘Bedroom?’ Jack suggests. Davey smiles. 

Jack is a little embarrassed to have Davey in his room. It feels rather exposing, rather like showing Davey a part of him he is very used to having be private. Jack sits on the edge of the bed, and watches him, anxiously, as he looks around, watches the way his gaze lingers on certain things - the book on his nightstand, the empty mugs on the windowsills, the clothes on the back of his chair. 

Davey looks, finally, at him, and smiles when he sees Jack staring. Davey sits down next to him on the edge of the bed, and takes his hand. He runs his other hand over Jack’s fingers, over his rings, over his knuckles, looking at them as he does. And then, suddenly, he looks up, and his eyes are so, so, very blue. 

‘What are you thinking?’ Davey asks. Jack smiles, and he knows he is blushing, yet again. 

‘I like your eyes.’ Jack says, and he almost winces at how simple, how very un-poetic it sounds when spoken aloud. 

‘Thank you.’ Davey says, smiling back. 

‘You’re very welcome.’ Jack replies.

And then, they both laugh, and Jack is laughing harder than he has laughed in a long time, and Davey never lets go of his hand, not even for a moment. 

‘You’re really, really beautiful, Jack.’ Davey says, quite unexpectedly, still smiling. He looks awed, a quiet admiration in the way he is looking at Jack, and it makes him feel as though he should look away, as though he is intruding on something remarkably private. 

He doesn’t look away. Instead, he kisses Davey, firm and determined, and Davey sighs into his touch, his head tilting a little to the side, fitting their mouths together more closely. 

It is quite different from any other kiss they have shared up to this point. Rather than clutching hands, hungry grasps, their touches are soft, considered, gentle. Davey’s hand is on his waist, and it makes no move to further the kiss into anything more, but rather burns an imprint into Jack’s side. Jack feels that same desire for a mark to be left on him, the same way he remembers wishing for Davey to leave fingertip-shaped bruises on his hips. Now, he craves the imprint of Davey, the memory of his touch, the heat of his body, the way his fingers curve and fit to his form. 

Rather than a quick desperation, their kisses are filled with a slow consideration. Davey’s lips part against his, but they are inviting, coaxing, rather than hungry, as if he is questioning, and asking permission. Jack grants it with every ounce of eagerness he had given when Davey had pressed him up against the wall of the shed. 

Despite the stark difference in their kisses, Jack feels that same intense desire, that same fiery wanting, that same fierce admiration and adoration that has been intrinsic in their every touch leading up to this moment. 

Davey breaks the kiss, but only momentarily, to press his lips elsewhere. Rather than the hot, desperate kisses against his throat, his jaw, these are considered, thoughtful, and Jack can tell that every press of Davey’s lips has something behind it. 

‘Tell me what you’re thinking.’ Jack says, again, his voice barely a murmur. Davey kisses him, long and deep, in response, and begins to talk, very quietly, as he traces a path across Jack. 

‘I’m thinking about your smile.’ Davey says, and he nudges the edge of Jack’s top lip with his mouth, a teasing kiss. He outlines his Cupid’s bow with a fingertip, and it tickles a little, and Jack scrunches his mouth up. Davey laughs, quietly, and Jack can feel the shape of his smile against his skin. 

‘I’m thinking about the way you screw your mouth up when you’re thinking. And your dimples - ’ Davey kisses each of his dimples, which only makes Jack smile even wider ‘- and how crazy they’ve been driving me.’

Davey kisses along the side of his face, over his temple, and his forehead. ‘I’m thinking about the way you frown at me.’ He kisses the centre of Jack’s forehead, right between his eyebrows, where the crease of a frown would be. 

‘Don’t tease.’ Jack mumbles. 

‘I’m not!’ Davey says, with a little laugh. ‘I like it. I really do.’ 

He kisses Jack’s mouth once again. He dips back in several times, as though he is attempting, and failing, to draw himself away from Jack’s lips. The feeling, so familiar to Jack himself, makes him a little dizzy. 

‘I’m thinking about the places you like most when I kiss you.’ Davey whispers, and Jack can hear the smile in his voice. Davey kisses a path down his throat, and Jack has to keep himself from moaning, has to cling onto Davey for fear of falling clean over. 

‘I’m thinking about the sound you make when I kiss right here.’ Davey presses his mouth to a spot beneath his left ear, on the bridge between his neck and his jaw. 

‘Hey, I don’t - _oh_.’ Jack melts the moment his lips touch there, and _fuck_ , how had Davey discovered that, when he didn’t even know of it himself? 

Jack realises, very suddenly, that Davey must have dedicated some indeterminate time to thinking about these kinds of things, to exploring Jack’s skin, to discovering him, without him even realising. The thought makes sends Jack’s heart straight into his mouth, and makes him suddenly desperate to do the same to Davey. 

He takes Davey’s face in both of his hands, pulling him gently up so that their faces are level, and kisses him. It is by no means a delicate kiss, but rather a desperate outpouring of the last week, of every ounce of confusion and willing and wanting that Jack has pushed down inside of him, suddenly spilling over the edges. And Davey is there to take it, to share it, to share with him the intensity of his own overwhelm. 

Jack wonders what the feelings are that Davey is trying to convey in this kiss. And then, he realises that he can ask. 

He doesn’t - not right now; it simply doesn’t seem the right time. He files the thought away for later, for a time when they are not so desperate, when the feelings are a little less fresh, a little less raw. 

The press of Davey’s mouth is becoming steadily more insistent, some of that familiar intensity returning. It takes all of Jack’s willpower to maintain some strength, not to collapse into him, not to plead with him to pin him down and kiss him like he had in the tool shed. 

There will be a time for such a kiss, Jack thinks. If he has his way, there will he time for many. 

Davey smiles against his mouth, and shifts a little closer to Jack - as much as he can, at least, while sitting on the edge of his bed. 

Ever so gently, Davey hooks a finger beneath the strap of Jack’s suspender, and, very slowly, slides it off his shoulder. It pulls his shirt down a little at the collar, and Davey kisses the skin where it shows, just above his collarbone, on the right side. The very sight of Jack’s collarbone, of the little patch of skin, makes Davey’s brain feel suddenly very fuzzy. He plants a path of kisses along Jack’s collarbone, his fingers pushing his shirt further and further back over his shoulder. He revels in the way his touch makes Jack shudder, in the way Jack stretches out, giving as much access as possible. It rather reminds Davey of the way a sunflower turns itself, presenting its petals to the sun. 

Jack makes to shuck off the other strap of his suspenders, hasty and desperate, but Davey stops him with a hand over his. 

‘Let me?’ Davey asks, quietly. 

‘Yeah.’ Jack breathes, nodding, and smiling that half-smile that has, in the past, so infuriated Davey. 

Davey thinks that Jack might be holding his breath, as he gently tugs off the other strap of his suspenders. He kisses his neck again, on the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. Jack ducks his head down to kiss him, properly, but he can hardly keep their mouths pressed together for his smiling. 

‘Can I?’ Jack asks, hovering his hands at Davey’s collar, gently nudging the top button of his shirt. Davey nods, and Jack pulls back, to undo the buttons of his shirt. 

His hands are fumbling, clumsy, and he bites his lip as he undoes each button, staring intently down, very focused. Davey kisses his forehead, and watches Jack, filled with a now-familiar warmth. 

Once all the buttons are undone, Jack hovers his hands, just for a moment, a few centimetres away from Davey, as though he isn’t quite sure what to do. 

‘This shirt really does look good on you.’ He says, finally. 

‘It looks better on you.’ Davey says. 

‘Agree to disagree.’ Jack shrugs, and kisses him. 

Davey feels like he is drowning. In Jack’s mouth, in his touch, in the heady, sweet, intoxication of having Jack so close, so irrevocably _his_. 

Jack has finally, _finally_ decided what to do with his hands, and is gently tracing across his chest, beneath the fabric of his shirt, his soft touch reverential. It feels as though Jack’s every move is forging a new path across his skin, creating as he goes, innovating, inventing. 

Davey takes to Jack’s buttons as they kiss, deftly undoing them, pressing the flat of his hand against the skin beneath, desperate to feel every inch of it. 

Jack leans into his touch, shifts himself so as to allow Davey to reach more of him, and it makes Davey’s heart stammer to realise it. 

Very, very gently, and incredibly slowly, Davey eases Jack’s shirt off of his shoulders. Jack shrugs it off, and Davey breaks from the kiss for a moment, just to drink in the sight of him, to watch as his shirt slides off of his arms. Davey presses the hand against his chest a little more firmly, and, again, Jack simply seems to understand. He moves back, toeing off his shoes as he does, to lie back against the pillows, never once for a moment breaking contact with Davey. 

Davey stops, just for a moment, kneeling next to him, and he takes Jack’s hand. He brings it to his lips, and kisses his knuckles, very gently. He knows, without any sudden realisation, without any strike of lightning or flashing signal, that he wants this, that he wants _Jack_ , for a very, very long time. 

*

Jack isn’t quite sure if Davey is asleep. He seems to be, his long lashes just touching his cheeks, his breath even, the arm slung around Jack’s side slack. 

His hair is falling into his face, just a little. Jack brushes it back with his hand, careful not to disturb him. Davey snuffles, the tiniest of noises, but doesn’t wake up. Jack has to suppress a giggle, at the ridiculousness of this all, of the surreality of having Davey in his bed, with his sheets tucked up around him, with his pillow leaving a crease in the side of Davey’s cheek. 

Very carefully, Jack leans down, and kisses the cluster of freckles on the left side of the bridge of Davey’s nose. He kisses at the corner of his eye, where it crinkles when he smiles, and when he laughs. He doesn’t have the words that Davey does, doesn’t have the ability to name and describe everything he adores - but he has his kisses, and, for now, that will have to suffice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to write this chapter i went through the entire fic and made notes on everything both of them had thought about each other and then compiled it into this scene to try and translate their confusion into a coherent final scene  
> what i mean is im so so proud of this fic and your comments and subscriptions and kudos mean everything (keep em coming!!)  
> thank u so much if ur reading this. one chapter left!!


	15. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it! the final chapter!!

**_one year later_ **

**__**

**__**  
Davey wakes up to a weight landing on the bed next to him. Gigi pushes her head under his chin, desperate for a cuddle. Bleary-eyed and achy, he scoops her up with one arm, and sets her down to rest on his chest. She gives a small, surprised mewl, but quickly settles, nuzzling into the side of his face. He scratches her between her ears.

It’s fairly late, judging by the light streaming in through a gap in the curtains, and by the empty space in the bed next to him. 

It takes him another moment to realise that he can smell something cooking, and that he can hear Jack singing quietly to himself from the kitchen. He takes a moment, just to revel in this feeling. It is hardly unfamiliar, and he keeps waiting for it to fade, for the novelty to disappear. But it’s been a year, and it just never seems to. 

Many people would say that a year isn’t long enough, that it is impossible to know in such a short time. In fact, many people have flat-out told them that. But a year seems like a lifetime, when Jack had come to mean so much to him in only a week. 

Granted, the majority of that week had been spent in furious competition. Much of the unfurling of their relationship, the discovery and disentangling of their feelings, had taken far longer, had stretched out over the following weeks and months. Davey often thinks he will never stop disentangling his feelings about Jack, his feelings _for_ Jack. They have always been confusing, and while he understands them far better now than he had then, he finds himself surprised, day in, day out, by the sheer extent to which his love for Jack can keep growing. 

He is snapped out of his daydream by Gigi placing a paw directly onto his face, and making him jump. He shoves her off of him, and gets out of bed, noticing, as he does, the pink post-it note on his bedside table. Written, in Jack’s untidy hand, is a note, a quick drawing of Gigi at the bottom. 

**gone for a run. love you.**

Davey breaks into a smile at that, and he knows that, were Jack with him, he would tease him for his goofy grin. Jack must be back from his run, now - the clock by his bed tells him it’s almost eleven. He peels the post-it note off of his bedside table, and quickly stows it in a box within a drawer, atop dozens more in all different colours. 

He pulls on a pair of sweatpants draped over the back of the chair, and heads into the kitchen. He stops in the doorway, unnoticed by Jack, and leans against the doorframe. Jack is singing along to music playing from a little speaker, flipping pancakes with a spatula. He’s wearing just a t-shirt over his boxers - one of Davey’s, far too big on him - that comes down to his mid-thigh. 

Davey’s chest tightens and his mouth goes a little dry, remarkably similarly to the way it had the first time he had met Jack, and he’d been wearing that striped tank top beneath those freaking suspenders. 

He could stand here and stare for a very long time - and he almost does, almost settles into standing, and drinking in the sight of Jack in their kitchen, drinking in the feeling of this quiet kind of joy. It feels almost too good to be true, that he gets this every single day. He often thinks that this is the kind of feeling you’re only supposed to feel a few times in your life, perhaps, at the few biggest and most important moments. But somehow, he feels it every day. He wonders, sometimes, what it will feel like at even bigger moments.

For the time being, though, he pushes the thought aside, and walks up behind Jack on tiptoes. He places his hands on Jack’s hips and pulls him back against him, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. Jack sighs, leaning his head back and to the side, letting Davey at his throat. 

Davey doesn’t think he will ever cease to be amazed at the way Jack melts beneath his touch, at the way he goes pliant, at the way he communicates what he wants merely with his touches, his movements. Now is no different, as he presses back against Davey’s touch, one hand coming to rest atop Davey’s where it is lying on his hip. 

‘Nice shirt.’ Davey says, mouth moving against Jack’s skin, in the space where the collar of his t-shirt hangs low, showing off the top of his shoulder. 

‘Shut up.’ Jack mumbles, and Davey can hear the smile in his voice. ‘You love it.’ 

‘I do.’ Davey smiles, and kisses the back of Jack’s neck, before spinning him around to kiss him properly. 

It’s true, he does love the sight of Jack in his clothes. There is something very primal in it, in the deep satisfaction that comes from seeing Jack wearing his shirts, seeing the way they don’t quite fit him. There is something a little more nuanced in the way it makes him feel - the fact that Jack wears them for a reason. The fact that Jack got back from his run, and picked up Davey’s clothes, rather than changing into his own. Perhaps he can smell Davey on the fabric. Perhaps he has some memory attached to it that Davey has long forgotten. Perhaps he wants a piece of Davey with him. The very thought makes something warm and pleased furl in the pit of Davey’s stomach. 

He kisses Jack, lazily, still sleepy, all smiles and morning breath. Jack tastes a little like coffee, but Davey hardly gets the chance to decipher it, because Jack is smiling against his mouth. 

‘What are you smiling about?’ Davey asks him, pressing a kiss to the side of his nose. 

‘What, am I not allowed to smile, now?’ Jack teases. 

‘You’re an idiot.’ Davey says. ‘I love you.’ 

*

Davey had never really formally moved in. It had just sort of happened - days and nights spent there, and clothes in the bedside drawer becoming a half of the wardrobe dedicated to Davey’s clothes, and his notebooks on the coffee table, and his favourite mug in Jack’s cupboard, and then all of a sudden, Davey was deciding not to renew his lease, and he was sleeping next to Jack every single night. 

The apartment is entirely different from the way it had been a year ago. In very basic ways, to begin with - the sofa had been moved around, a space had been created beneath the big sitting room window for Jack to paint, he had adopted Davey’s favourite chair, and sometimes Davey’s sheets are on the bed. Except, really, he doesn’t think of them as Davey’s any more. There is no _Davey’s_ , and, likewise, there is no _Jack’s_ , but simply _theirs_. 

There is a rack by the front door where Davey puts his muddy boots. Jack had fixed up a shelf, just above it, where he keeps his toolbag, so that he doesn’t forget it when he’s in a rush in the mornings. On the coffee table, there are two mugs, gifts from Davey - one labelled _coffee_ and one labelled _paint water_. (They don’t always work. Sometimes he forgets to read them and ends up putting coffee in the paint water mug and from there on things tend to spiral downwards. 

There isn’t much space - in an ideal world, he would have his own little studio space, and Davey would have an office. But for now, they crowd into the same sitting room and work, side by side. Jack finds that he rather likes it when Davey watches him paint in the evenings, the sunset lighting his face in golds and yellows and oranges and pinks. 

And Jack _definitely_ likes it when Davey does his work phone calls in the same room, walking around and gesturing with his hands as he flips from French to Italian to Spanish and back again. 

(And he’s pretty sure Davey likes it when they tumble into the bedroom together the moment he ends the call. He certainly does, in any case.)

There is a photo of Davey on the cabinet, a framed magazine clipping from that very first press interview he ever did. In the photograph, he is leaning on a spade, and smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He’s wearing a soft, faded blue shirt, rolled up to the elbows, a little too tight across his shoulders, and with a barely-visible wrinkled patch in the centre. 

Right next to it, there is a photo of all of them at Sarah and Katherine’s wedding, Davey at Sarah’s side, a flower tucked into his buttonhole. Davey looks damn good in that suit. Whenever he walks by it, Jack makes a mental note to take him out somewhere fancy soon, just so that he has the excuse to see him in it again. 

There is a small, black ring-box in Jack’s jacket pocket, that he has been carrying around with him for the last two months. He is very proud of himself that he has managed to keep it a secret for so long. He’s going to propose soon, he really is, he just needs to find a moment when they’re not surrounded by prying eyes. He kind of thinks he’ll end up doing it at the flower show - just a day away, and filled with so much weight for the both of them. 

He has several scenarios mapped out in his head, and he often spends hours running through them, while he’s painting, while he’s cooking, while he’s lying next to a sleeping Davey in bed or on the sofa. 

He re-plays them in his mind the night before the flower show, a year almost to the day since they met. Davey is asleep on his shoulder, and the second half of a movie is playing. Gigi is asleep on Davey’s feet. Their empty bowls of takeout are still on the coffee table. 

There are currently three top contenders, which Jack spends far too long thinking about, near-fantasising about. He just has to decide which to carry out. 

First of all, is the casual proposal. He would surprise Davey in the kitchen over breakfast, still holding the spatula, rush out to the hallway to grab the ring box. Perhaps the breakfast would burn, perhaps they would call in sick to work. 

(If he’s being honest, the sight of Davey in the mornings in just his sweatpants, low on his hips, with his eyes still tired, and his smile lazy and warm, is enough to make anyone go down on one knee. Or on both. Which Jack has, on many an occasion.) 

But that feels too simple, and not special enough for what Davey deserves. Jack wants to give him something memorable, something tangible, a story he can re-tell. 

(And Jack is fairly sure that if he decides to propose while they’re at home, he’ll do something stupid, like do it while they’re in bed. And even if he doesn’t, they will almost definitely wind up having weepy, newly-engaged sex on the nearest surface. He’s not quite sure he wants to spend the rest of his life telling people that he proposed to his husband like that.)

(But _god_ , does it send a thrill right through him to think of Davey as his husband. Even _boyfriend_ feels a little surreal to him, sometimes, given that the word _enemy_ would have done them the most justice that very first week. He has devoted a frankly embarrassing amount of time thinking about the ways he will be able to use Davey’s name. 

Telling people, _this is Davey, my husband._. Hearing people refer to them as _Mr and Mr Jacobs-Kelly._ Or, perhaps - and, admittedly, his personal favourite - hearing Davey call him _his husband_. Hearing Davey call him _Jack Jacobs._ Being utterly and irrevocably _his_. Not that he isn’t already. And, of course, not that marriage is the be-all and end-all of relationships. But for him, there is something about being able to express it simply in those words. Being able to have written evidence of their promise. Being able to proclaim to the world that Davey is his, and he is Davey’s, to have it as fact, in plain sight.)

He tries not to let himself get sidetracked. 

Option number two is to do it more publicly. The flower show is the perfect opportunity - the right mix of their friends being there, and meaning something personal to them both. Jack imagines that he would tell other people, gradually, as the week goes on, and finally do it on the last day. He would maybe steal Crutchie’s megaphone, stand up on a crate, let the crowds gather around them, and tell Davey he wants to spend the rest of their lives together in the most outspoken way possible. 

There are several flaws in this plan. First of all, there’s no way Crutchie would ever let him anywhere near their megaphone. So that’s off the cards. 

Secondly, he doubts that their friends would be able to keep a secret for the entire week. And, by that, he means that Race won’t be able to keep his mouth shut for longer than about thirty seconds. And the moment he tells one person, Race will know.

Most of all, he’s not sure Davey would like it. They’ve talked about it, a little, but mostly in a very casual way - when they are lying in bed, still hazy, tangled in one another, or when they are teasing, poking fun at each other. He just wants Davey to know he has the option, as terrified as he is, and he’s not sure doing it in public like that would give it to him. 

His final idea, which makes the most sense - and which he has put the most tentative preparation into, is sort of a combination of the other two. He will get Davey alone, somehow (and, if he’s being honest, that is the most difficult part of the plan) and propose to him somewhere secretive, but that still means something to them. The tool shed, perhaps, or out by Davey’s rosebushes. 

Unbeknownst to Davey, he has requested that Romeo re-build the lake from last year, with the same bridge and archways, only with roses twined around it. Just in case. 

Jack stares down at Davey, sleeping peacefully, curled up next to him, huddled under the blanket that is half-covering the both of them. His heart stammers and grinds to a halt, and it is almost satisfying that, after a year, even a glance at Davey can make him feel the same way. 

*

What Jack doesn’t know is that there is no ring inside the box in his jacket pocket, because Davey stole it three weeks ago. 

Honestly, it was just like Jack to forget that he was doing the washing that week, and it was just like Jack to leave his jacket on the sofa, with a big paint stain on it. So _of course_ Davey checked the pockets. 

Really, he doesn’t know why Jack thought he would be able to keep it a secret for so long. 

His heart had jumped straight into his mouth when he found it, when his fingers met the little black cube. He had almost left it there, let Jack have it as his secret, and acted surprised when he brought it out - whenever that was. On the other hand, it was far too good an opportunity to pass up. Besides, he had wanted to be the one to propose. It wasn’t fair that Jack had gotten his hands on a ring first. It made him smile just to imagine the look on Jack’s face when he got down onto one knee and opened a completely empty box. 

So he had opened the box. And _shit_ , it was absolutely perfect. A simple, silver band, with flowers etched into the metal around the sides. He could tell from just one glance that Jack had drawn them. 

He had almost cried, there and then. But then, he had heard the sound of Jack’s key in the front door, and quickly dropped the ring into his pocket, the box into Jack’s jacket, and the jacket back onto the sofa. 

*

It feels rather odd, to go to the flower show together, to drive there both in Davey’s van, to have planned the whole thing sitting side by side on the sofa. 

As they get out of the van, Jack slips his hand into his jacket pocket, and curls his fingers around the ring box, breathing a sigh of relief to find it there. 

Davey, at his side, slips his hand into the pocket of his overalls. He rubs the band of the ring between his forefinger and thumb, and smiles to himself, just a little. 

‘What are you smiling at?’ Jack asks, frowning a little. 

‘Hm?’ Davey looks over at him, caught unawares. ‘Oh, nothing. Just wondering which cupboard we’re gonna make out in today.’ 

‘Shut up.’ Jack bumps him with his hip. 

‘So you don’t want to make out with me in a cupboard?’ Davey asks, raising his eyebrows. 

‘Now, I never said that.’ 

Davey laughs, and kisses him. 

‘Hey, what time is it?’ Davey asks. Jack pulls his phone from his pocket, and clicks it on. 

‘Eight forty-five.’ 

‘Oh, fantastic.’ Davey grins, grabs Jack’s hand, and tugs him away from the entrance, around the side of the building, next to where the fire escape winds down the side of the outside wall. 

Jack is already expecting it, doing Davey’s work for him and leaning back against the wall, letting Davey crowd into his space and kiss him, hard, one hand on the wall on either side of his head. Davey hums, appreciatively, against his lips, and Jack opens his mouth a little, giving way for Davey to kiss him even deeper. 

Jack hooks his fingers into Davey’s belt loops, tugging him forwards until they are pressed together, shoulder-to-hip. Davey takes the hint, kissing him suddenly more fiercely, bringing one hand to his waist, holding him, firm and steady. Jack sighs into his mouth, kissing him back with as much energy as he can muster. Painfully aware that they are on limited time, Davey presses quick, hot, wet kisses down the side of Jack’s throat, using his free hand to push aside Jack’s collar. 

Jack eagerly obliges, tilting his head to the side, and mumbling Davey’s name over and over, as if it is some kind of incantation. Davey hovers his lips for a moment over the pulse point on the side of Jack’s throat, revelling in the way it speeds up, the longer he rests there. 

‘Davey, _please_.’ Jack says, finally, his voice low and quiet, and it makes Davey’s chest ache with desire and with adoration. 

Davey knows by heart all of the ways to send Jack into a spin. He knows the places on his skin that will make him sigh, knows the right amount of pressure to pin him down with that will make him go pliant beneath him, knows the spot on his lip that will make him moan if he scrapes along it with his teeth, knows the nicknames to call him that will make him blush and stammer. 

What he always manages to underestimate, though, is the way that Jack knows those things about him. And, _fuck_ , when Jack pleads with him like that, when he speaks with his voice all low and husky, he knows that he is helpless to Jack’s every wanting. 

He presses one, final kiss to Jack’s pulse point, and then moves a little further down, to the patch of his throat that is only half-hidden by the collar of his shirt. He sucks on the skin there, very gently, and Jack’s brain appears to short-circuit. He goes weak at the knees, and Davey wonders if, were he to step back, Jack would be able to hold himself up. The thought makes him smile a little, and press himself closer to Jack. 

‘Hey, you two!’ Race calls. ‘Get a room!’

Jack and Davey both look up, neither pulling away too much. Race and Albert are waving at them cheerfully, from where they have just parked their car. 

‘You’re disgusting!’ Albert adds. 

Davey waves at them as Jack flashes them his middle finger. They walk inside, hand in hand. 

‘We should go inside.’ Davey sighs. 

‘Do we have to?’ Jack whines. 

‘We do.’ Davey says, fondly, pressing one last kiss to Jack’s mouth, and stepping back. He doesn’t point out the bruise that he has left, just poking out of the collar of Jack’s shirt. It makes him immensely pleased to see it, and he knows that Jack, later on, will pretend to be annoyed once he realises he has been walking around with it on show the entire day. 

Jack sighs, dramatically, and leans his head back against the wall, just for a moment, before taking Davey’s hand. 

Davey puts his hand into the back pocket of Jack’s jeans, and Jack hooks an arm around his waist. Intertwined, they walk, together, into the convention centre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. wow. i have loved every single moment of writing this fic and it makes me so happy that so many people have enjoyed it too!  
> thank you thank you thank you for following it through to the end. those of you with subscriptions on and who always comment i see you! you know who you are! i adore you!  
> please please come and talk to me about this fic or my others or future fics and ideas and prompts on tumblr @weisenbachfelded  
> much love!!!

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think?? this idea could go very well or very badly. im weirdly attached to it and i would maybe sell my soul for gardener davey. leave me a comment!!  
> im also on tumblr @weisenbachfelded!!


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